


Eternal Lines

by Shrike_Naasade



Series: Songs of Innocence and Experience [1]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: BetterThanUsual!Slade, Bruce Wayne's A+ Parenting, But No Redemption, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad!Dick, Dad!Slade, Dick Grayson is sunshine and seething rage, FIC IS COMPLETE, Good!Slade, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I Come For Your Feels Like Two Face With A Baseball Bat, M/M, Ok now time for the fun tags, Oops, Please hug Dick Grayson, Repairing your relationships with your children in diners: a Slade Wilson aesthetic, Rose Wilson is a National Treasure, Slade Wilson's A+ Parenting, Slow Burn, Timeline? There's no timeline here--this is Bat country, eh, forgot to add an important tag, getting your shit together, long!fic, see intro for full details, the boys are sad in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28988178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shrike_Naasade/pseuds/Shrike_Naasade
Summary: Mary Jagori Grayson once told her son that we all carry love like a candle in our hearts.Any such light in Slade Wilson’s heart had long since been doused, embers buried under earth and pointedly ignored. Estranged from his children, hated by his ex-wife, and with Wintergreen as his only companion, Slade is steadily sliding farther and farther from humanity.Dick Grayson's light is weak and flickering, brought low by one loss piled atop another: Haly's Circus is in ashes, his son is dead, relationship with Bruce under terminal stress, and friends scattered to the winds. Slowly but surely, Dick is breaking under the strain of attempting to keep the family together in the wake of Damian's death.Gently, inadvertently the two quietly begin to discover that their commonalities are stronger than their differences. When the Crime Syndicate invades, Slade and Dick are forced to make choices that will forever change not only themselves, but everyone who surrounds them.We are our choices, and we are all unavoidably bound together in a tapestry of life. Fire leaps from one person to the next in a cascade of light, governed by the most beautiful and unpredictable force: the human element.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Rose Wilson, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Songs of Innocence and Experience [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126424
Comments: 129
Kudos: 167





	1. Intro & Prologue

### Introduction

If you don’t give a fresh flying fuck about content warnings, feel free to skip down the page.

This work contains excessive spoilers for _Deathstroke_ (2016), _Forever Evil_ , and _Grayson_ (2012).

The E rating is for (enthusiastically consensual) sexual content. Aside from the sex, there is nothing more graphic than what you’d find in a comic. (Friendly reminder that _Deathstroke_ (2016) carries a rating of T+: 16 years and older.) 

The aftermath of _Nightwing_ (2011) #30, Bruce’s “discussion” with Dick about taking the Spyral mission, is a central part of this story. Although Dick is never adopted by Bruce in this fic, he still played a fatherly role, and thus may be read as physical abuse of adult children. 

Dick is struggling with grief and depression relating to Damian’s death. Slade is a Special Forces combat veteran of the Iraq/Afghanistan Wars. These are also integral parts of the story—if any of the above are upsetting topics, I’d advise you to close this fic. 

There are _no_ content warnings at the beginning of chapters _except_ those which contain ‘graphic’ content. Graphic means you read from the character’s pov, as they experience something. For example, in Chapter 12, Dick has a panic attack, which you read from his point of view as it happens. Here is a full list of possibly triggering topics. 

Passing : Previous passive suicide attempts, hunting and dressing animals, bi erasure, rape.

Semi-Graphic  : Self-destructive tendencies, PTS, recollection of wartime combat, medical trauma, dead sons, mourning, drinking (for the right and wrong reasons), ethnic slurs, discussions of race/ethnicity, prior domestic abuse, prior child abuse (recounting of the incident in _Deathstroke_ (2016) #25). 

Graphic : Depression, grief, panic attacks, dissociation, coping mechanisms that could be considered self-harm, aftermath of the physical abuse of adult children, intoxication (not in a bad way).

Fic updates Tuesdays at 11:30a ET.

* * *

### Chapter 1: Under His Skin

“ _The world’s deadliest assassin was a shadow man. The darkness empowered him. The sun was, at best, an annoyance. But now, it was as if he’d never noticed the sun before or felt its warmth. As if he’d never_ **_breathed_**.”  
—From the journal of David Isherwood

FIVE YEARS AGO

On some days, Slade would indulge in sparring with Grayson. 

The kid was fast and inventive, and it always proved a good time—for Slade, at least—whether Grayson was obnoxiously sunny or viciously angry. He usually got a few good hits in, but nothing that would win a true battle. 

Today was the first time they’d fought to a genuine stand-still. Slade found himself rather securely pinned, face mashed into the ground. There was no clear escape, not without doing some serious damage to Grayson, which was out of the question since he needed the kid in one piece to train Rose. Perhaps, if Slade waited a moment, a solution would present itself.

Grayson never passed up the opportunity for a quip or playful jibe, but when spoke, his words were unexpected.

“I think you view human attachments as vulnerabilities,” he said gently in Slade’s ear.

Psychological intimidation wasn’t Nightwing’s usual style, at least not like this. Far more cunning men than he had tried, and failed, to worm their way into Deathstroke’s head. 

“That’s what they are, Kid,” the mercenary growled in response, taking a deep breath in an attempt to get room to maneuver. The kid held fast, and Slade was hit by the faintest smell of vanilla.

“You’re not _incorrect_ ,” Grayson continued, “I’ve buried my parents. I’ve buried a little brother, my best friends, but I’m never going to stop. I’m never going to stop letting people know I care, because I refuse to live my life in fear.”

On second thought, maybe Grayson had more ability to play head games than previously expected. He was a Bat, after all. Still, the kid had some fucking nerve, regardless of their contract regarding Rose. Something hot lit inside Slade. He was suddenly hyper aware of Richard’s jaw right next to his ear, the silky black hair tumbling loose. The feeling took him entirely off guard, more than anything thus far. Where had _that_ come from? 

Richard Grayson—Nightwing—was an infuriating, meddlesome, incredibly gifted, and resolute adversary. He was also, Slade realized with a twist in his gut, very much no longer a boy. Grayson paid no mind to his internal crisis, and continued.

“I think you loved Adeline and she broke your heart. I think Joey’s injury left scar tissue, and not just around your eye. I think Grant’s death built walls around you. I think you called me to mentor Rose because you’re afraid of letting her into your life.”

Slade growled, low and dangerous. “Check yourself, Grayson.” 

Agreement or not, Grayson was crossing a goddamn line and there _would_ be consequences. The kid knew exactly how much of a threat Deathstroke could pose, but it didn’t seem to deter him. In fact, it only seemed to amuse him—Slade could feel the rumble of Richard’s laughter on his back.

“The thing is, you want connection. You can’t help but love your children. Sure, you’re brutally efficient and pragmatic: no emotions on the job—I was raised by _Batman_ ; I’m familiar with the concept. Life is more than a mission, no matter what B thinks.”

Slade bucked, trying to break Nightwing’s hold. His blood burned. Whenever he got loose, Slade was no longer sure if he was going to break ‘Wing’s nose, or something else entirely. 

Richard’s voice was low in his ear; the exhale of breath lit Slade’s nerves like sparking wire. 

“I’ve never taken you for a _coward_ , Slade Wilson.” 

It was something to ponder at a later time, because he felt the grip on his arms release, and the weight lifted off him. 

Grayson didn’t even make it to his feet before he was flipped onto his back, their positions reversed. Slade dug his fingers into the dark hair and viciously pressed their lips together.

Fire coiled in his gut in response to Grayson’s moan, and he pressed the man down tighter. Slade wondered if Grayson loved like he fought: with lithe, passionate grace. Was he as mouthy in bed as he was on the mats? The thought sent shivers down Slade’s spine. A tongue traced across his lips, a question, one which he was all too happy to affirm. When they finally pulled apart for air, the sight that greeted Slade nearly robbed him of the breath he’d taken.

The thoughts that crept in the back of Slade’s mind while pinned burst forth: Richard was absolutely beautiful. His ebony hair was tousled from their sparring, olive skin glowed with a faint sheen of sweat, and his _eyes_. Grayson’s honest openness shone in his eyes—it was like looking into the sun.

Throughout the years, Richard occupied a few categories in Slade’s life. The first role was “obnoxious brat”, then he graduated to “adversary and occasional ally”, but both were firmly _business_. Business and pleasure did not mix, except where pleasure was a tool of business. Slade’s current feelings were _not_ business-related in the slightest.

“Are you okay?” Richard asked, a note of concern coloring his voice. A warm, gentle hand rubbed the back of Slade’s neck. It was soothing—aiming to calm—which could only mean manipulation. This had to be some sort of ploy. 

“What’s your game, Grayson?” he snarled, shifting his weight towards a proper pin and pulling hard on Grayson’s hair.

The man beneath him couldn’t completely hide the soft gasp and flutter of his eyelids, and _holy shit_ , the kid was genuinely turned on.

“Game? I’m not playing any game.” His face showed honest confusion. “I, uh, didn’t think things would lead here, but I’m certainly not complaining.” Bewilderment melted into soft sheepishness. 

Slade was a hunter of men, he killed for a living; what creature would willingly show their soft belly? The question tumbled out of his mouth: “are you _mad_?”

Instead of the appropriate response of fear or horror, he got a cheeky grin. “No more than usual.”

The mercenary dropped more of his weight into the pin, so much that it could not be pleasurable. Grayson might like hair-pulling but Slade doubted the man was an outright masochist. 

“I am not a good or nice person, Grayson. I don’t know what delusions are in that pretty head of yours,” he hissed.

This soft intake of breath was definitely one of discomfort, but it did not dissuade the firm hand on the back of his neck that now burned like a brand, or the calm, resolute gaze that bore into his eye.

“You’re wrong. I’d guessed it before, but now I’ve seen how you look at Rose.” The bird gasped again. Much more pressure and Slade risked joint damage. Of course, that was not enough to deter Richard Grayson. It did make his words tumble faster, though. “Like I said, I know _a lot_ about hiding emotions. Sure, you might do some unsavory things, but you’ve got a good heart; you care _deeply_. You love Rose and Joey and Wintergreen more than—”

Slade reared back and slugged Grayson in the face.

Nightwing would have rolled with it, made a sexual jibe. This infuriating man simply repeated himself: “I’ve never taken you for a coward”.

Slade threw Grayson out of the pin, got to his feet, and strode from the room.

Nagging thoughts, however, followed Slade. There was no iteration of that man—Grayson, Robin, Nightwing—who lied about such things. Subterfuge was Bat business; he was a forgiving, soft-hearted idiot. That meant he saw what Slade allowed no other person to see: that, at least for a few individuals, Slade cared.

The mercenary’s brain buzzed with the confused endorphins of pleasure and physical aggression. Slade needed a cold shower, a glass of whiskey, and to never think on this encounter again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to hel, my fellow gremlins. Buckle up.
> 
> A big, big thank-you to Sanerontheinside, Jynx, and Cuzosu for putting up with my bullshit for over a year while I worked on this fic.  
> Thank you to Jynx for coining the term “PuppyKiller!Slade”
> 
> Intro quote from Isherwood— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #20
> 
> “Friendship is an expensive and unnecessary risk”— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #15  
> 


	2. I Know a Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can recall when I was the one in your seat—I’ve still got the scars and they occasionally bleed—but I'm staying alive.
> 
> I know a place we can go, where everyone can lay down their weapons.  
> Just give me trust and anything can happen.

* * *

#### May 28th | 11p

THE PRESENT

Slade didn’t like passing through Gotham, even when he wasn’t on a job; there were always too many Bats about, poking their noses into other people’s business. He needed information, however, and the source unfortunately resided in the cursed city. Slinking from shadow to shadow, he crept through the Bowery. Slade’s fluid progression halted when he heard something unexpected, and he paused in a darkened back alley. 

Sounds of misery were inherent to the Bowery’s nightly noises, like sirens and gunshots, but this was more than Gotham’s wretchedness du jour: this was gasping, ugly weeping. Slade risked a glance upwards and was stunned to see none other than _Grayson_ sitting atop an abandoned tenement. The bird’s feet dangled off the edge, body practically curled in on itself and face buried in his hands. The mercenary frowned. Grayson was no delicate flower.

The gasping grew louder, and _Christ_ , the kid was going to hyperventilate and bash his brains into the pavement. Cursing himself, Slade scaled the rusted fire escape, landing softly on the gravely roof. It was a testament to Grayson’s state that Slade got so close before he reacted: a tilt of the head just enough to recognize the mercenary’s boots.

“Deathstroke,” his voice was raw and ragged, “unless you’re planning on blowing up the city or enabling some other mass chaos, I literally don’t care what you’re doing in town. You won’t have any trouble from me.”

Whatever caused Richard’s upset must have been monumental, and was therefore valuable information. Slade didn’t respond, but sat down next to the boy—no, Grayson hadn’t been a boy for years—and took a pull on the half-empty bottle of whiskey. He could make a few guesses as to what brought this on: Slade saw the ashen remains of Amusement Mile, the newspaper headlines.

“Funny, I don’t see Nightwing anywhere. Or Deathstroke.” 

To be fair, the mercenary was in his suit, but he’d removed his mask while scaling the building. Grayson extended a hand, and Slade passed him the bottle. 

“Is there any particular reason why you’re getting wasted on a rooftop?”

“Robin.” 

That kid was a vicious little demon, but he allegedly adored Nightwing. It didn’t seem likely that Robin would do anything to harm his predecessor, especially nothing to cause such a drastic reaction. 

“He took a sword right through the sternum. Robin was _ten_ , Wilson, ten years old. No—,” he stuttered, “no parent should bury their children.” 

Grayson’s words ended out on a ragged gasp that turned into an almost inhuman howl. He curled his head to his knees, arms grasped around his middle.

 _Jesus_ fucking _Christ_. Yeah, a dead Robin would fuck Richard up like this. Out of respect, Slade _didn’t_ take the opportunity to note a prime example of why children shouldn’t be vigilantes. He’d had brothers-in-arms, and losing them was never easy. It twisted something ugly and old in Slade’s chest. 

There’d been more than one night where he’d sat on the back patio of the Unit’s house, drinking from a personal bottle of arak while his teammates worked their ways through cans of shitty beer. The sweet perfume of the orange grove behind Sadaam’s palace mixed with the liquor’s sharp flavor. None of them said a word; there was no comfort for this kind of pain. The only sound was a muezzin’s call prayer, interrupting the otherwise constant background noise of mortars. Quiet solidarity was the most anyone could offer.

“Quiet” and “Richard Grayson” didn’t go together—much like dogs and small children, silence from Richard usually indicated mischief. In that sense, the unashamed weeping was somewhat reassuring. On the other hand, it made Slade’s skin crawl. There were never any tears on the patio, because that was weakness, and weakness was not permitted. Slade took another pull on the whiskey, an acceptable mid-shelf selection. He concluded that simply being present was the best course of action, because it was always better than drinking to the dead alone. 

Grayson’s breathing eventually evened, and he continued. 

“Not a few weeks ago _fucking_ Joker burned Haly’s to the ground, gassed everyone, and personally killed a friend for no other reason than to fuck with me. He got all of us, all of the Bats. He almost,” the intake of breath was a sharp whistle, “got Hood, _again_ . It was after everything too—the fucking psycho coated the inside of his helmet with hallucinogenic acid. _Then_ we find out B had lied to us for years, telling us that the Joker didn’t know our identities. Now, that shouldn’t surprise me,” Richard finished bitterly.

Slade wasn’t touching the last comment with a barge pole. He was also fairly certain Grayson hadn’t meant to let it slip. 

“You know who came and slapped some sense into me after all that?” The bird turned his head to look at Slade, blue eyes bloodshot and swollen. “Robin. The little hellion had been tailing me. He said, ‘ _Most people only see what they want to see, and the others are inept. I’ve been watching you all week and you’re not fine. And as for what the Joker said? You realize the man literally cut off his own face, yes_?’” 

Grayson gave a watery chuckle. “Kid has more sense than almost every adult I know. He told me we were going to hang out and play video games, low-key bitched about Batman taking away his katana, then swung off into the night.” 

Richard gazed wistfully into the distance, relishing the soft memory.

Slade was morbidly curious if the other man still believed the feel-good bullshit he’d spouted years ago, or if he’d finally learned his lesson. The challenge echoed in Slade’s head: ‘ _I never took you for a_ **_coward_ ** ’. He was certainly _not_ a coward; he had an ounce of fucking _sense_.

When Slade spoke, his voice came out lower and rougher than anticipated. “Was it worth it?” 

Richard blinked, shaking himself, and turned to stare Slade dead in the eye. 

“Yes, goddamn it,” he said, even though tears silently streamed down his face. “Grief is the price we pay for love, and the cost is not too high.”

Stupid fucking idiot. Slade set the whiskey aside, and slid over next to Richard, wrapping a hand around his back. His hair was just as soft as the mercenary remembered, with the barest hint of vanilla, mostly overpowered by alcohol. Slade nuzzled into it, breathing deeply, letting it soothe his nerves rattled by the display of excessive emotion. Grayson leaned into his touch; it was so open and vulnerable, so _trusting_. 

“You’re a fool,” Slade said into Richard’s hair.

The bird shook in a little chuckle. “Maybe so. But,” Grayson continued softly, “all we can do is decide how to spend the days we’re given, and I don’t regret my choices.”

One contract after another, that was how Slade spent his own days. It wasn't a happy existence by any stretch of the imagination, but it was quiet, peaceful. It was preferable to pain: by God, he’d learned his lesson after Addie, after Grant. Nightwing always was hard-headed, though, and would likely be destroyed before learning better.

Slade could remember the names and faces of every man who’d died beside him, or under his orders. He remembered Peterson’s last wet breaths—who’d somehow vainly clung to a few more moments of life after their Humvee got blown to high Heaven. He remembered Davies’ screams of pain as his mangled leg bled into the sand. 

They didn’t haunt Slade in the way they haunted other Operators. He would always carry the sense of utter failure, but would never be slowly crushed by the loss and weight of memory, as so many of them had. Slade had seen it time and time again, and as much as Grayson liked to prove himself an exception to the rules, he could not escape the inevitable nature of humanity.

It was a tragedy, really, but also not Slade’s problem. The mercenary let himself enjoy the whiskey and physical contact with another body, sipping whiskey as Richard rested his cheek on the chestplate of Slade’s armor. Slowly, his breathing became regular, then began to slow into the soft cadence of sleep. The Bowery was no place for napping. Slade nudged the bird into wakefulness. 

“Can you walk?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Grayson scrubbed his face. “The bottle wasn’t full when I opened it tonight.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Slade remarked as they both got to their feet.

Richard crossed his arms and glared, yet it came across as playful. 

“I can hold my liquor, I’ll have you know. It’s kind of a requirement for my night job—can’t blow a mission because ‘Wing gets white-girl wasted after one beer.”

Seven-odd shots of whiskey did not one beer make. Still, a smile tugged on Slade’s lips; a hint of skepticism colored his tone. 

“Is that right?”

“Maybe you’ll find out sometime, _Soldier Boy_.”

 _Soldier Boy_? Slade’s eyebrows crept skyward. Was he…flirting? Nightwing was a notorious flirt. Consequently, it was difficult to tell when the man was serious. Verbal barbs, however, were comfortable—familiar. Slade smiled back, with teeth. 

“Drinks another night then, _Richard_.”

“Yeah?” There was a clear challenge in his voice and the cant of his hips. “If you’re in town tomorrow night, I’ll be at Noonan’s.” 

He tucked the capped bottle into the pouch of his dark sweatshirt, flipped up the hood, and gave a two finger salute. 

“See you around, Slade.”

Grayson turned and took a running leap onto the roof of the neighboring building. Slade was left standing in his wake, watching the man flit from roof to roof as if he wasn’t—at minimum—buzzed. He was absolutely insane; no base human had any business pulling that kind of stunt, never mind pulling it off _well_.

Slade snapped on his mask, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, and started back to his motel room.

* * *

#### May 29th | 9p

Noonan’s was possibly the _seediest_ bar Slade had ever seen in the States, and that was saying something. For once, an eyepatch _wasn’t_ so out of place—not with this crowd—and nobody looked twice at his ponytail. 

Casually, Slade surveyed the room. Richie Grayson couldn’t be seen in such a disreputable establishment and was likely concealing himself. The mercenary grinned crookedly, amused with the little game. He was a hunter, and knew this bird well. At an easy pace, he meandered towards the bar, shoes sticking to the floor every few steps. 

Once he was close enough to see through the haze of smoke, Slade spied a well-loved denim jacket and tousled black hair nursing a beer in the far, dim corner. Weaving his way through grimy tables, he slid onto a stool next to Richard.

“Quite the place you’ve chosen,” he murmured, as two intoxicated patrons started a brawl by the dart board.

Grayson smirked. “There’s no safer place in the city; North Gotham is Red Hood’s territory, and the Bat generally stays out unless Hood gets too rowdy.” 

Slade signaled the bartender for a whiskey, neat. 

“Sure, it keeps the Bats away, but there’s plenty of other things that go bump in the night.”

The smirk melted into a dark, pretty smile that was both a threat and a warning. 

“Unfortunately for them, I live in the night. Are you done with your job?”

In truth, Slade expected to be needled—at least lightly—for information. He assessed the other man. 

“You’re not even going to ask what I’m doing in the city?”

“I _did_ say as long as you weren’t blowing up the city or enabling mass chaos, I would look the other way, and I’m not going back on my word. Besides,” he grinned, looking more like the usual Grayson, “I don’t see Deathstroke or Nightwing anywhere.”

Cheeky shit. The bartender came back with his drink, and Slade took a small sip, rolling it around his mouth. No detectable poisons or drugs, and not watered down, either. There was something to be said for appearing a scary motherfucker.

“Yes, I’m done. I’ll be gone tomorrow and trouble your _fair_ city no more.”

Richard snorted into his beer. He leaned easily on the pitted, stained bar, appraising Slade.

“Gotta say, a couple years ago—right before you punched me and cracked my cheekbone—you really took me by surprise. Didn’t you have a wife and kids?”

Yeah, most people thought that. Homosexuality wasn’t something Slade knew existed before the military; it wasn’t exactly a topic of discussion in the sleepy mountain town of his youth. He never considered it with regards to himself until a pretty blonde boy at a bar in West Berlin asked Slade if he’d like to find out, and Slade quickly learned that pleasure was pleasure. 

“Didn’t you date an alien princess?” he shot back.

Light caught on the edge of Richard’s bottle as he raised it in salute. “Touché.” 

Slade traced the defined, yet soft features of Grayson’s face with his eye. 

“Did I actually crack your cheek, or are you being dramatic?”

“Oh no, you absolutely cracked it.”

“It’s not like you _weren’t_ mouthing off.”

“I expected you to take a swing at me, but was I _wrong_?”

Slade glanced at him sideways. “Are you looking to relive the experience? I promise I can hit you hard enough for a proper fracture.”

Grayson laughed: a delighted, bright thing. The man was practically vibrating, knee twitching. Slade couldn’t pin down what he was after, though. 

“You genuinely weren’t hitting on me?”

“Oh Jesus, no.” Embarrassment crept onto Grayson’s face and he picked at the beer’s label. “I wouldn’t try to mix something serious with flirting. We both know I use flirting as a distraction.” He shrugged. “It’s not something I’ve ever bothered to use on you. I knew you weren’t a meat-headed bigot, because of Joey, and too much a professional to be distracted otherwise.”

“For someone who can show surprising strategic insight, you’re obnoxiously sunny. I’d always wondered how much of that was the mask.” 

A cheery disposition and advanced combat tactics rarely went hand-in-hand.

“What you see is what you get!” he grinned wide. “Night shift is me, just business me; it’s no different than a suit and tie.”

That Slade would concede: the man was professional, had always been. It was something he could respect. That’s what it came down to—he respected Richard Grayson. 

Unwinding at a bar was something he’d not done in ages, not with another person: Billy, Rax, and Ish were all getting too old for this sort of thing. It had also been a while since he’d encountered Grayson, professionally or otherwise. They shot the breeze, swapping humorous anecdotes and generally trying to get a rise out of each other. At the end of his second beer, Richard stretched languorously and grinned like a shark. 

“Want to hustle some people out of pool money?” 

Slade decided he liked the sharp edge of that smile, the gleam of danger in Grayson’s eyes. The mercenary liked a good fight, a good challenge of any sort, really. It had been too long since someone could give it to him.

Slade smiled back, just as sharp. “That seems almost cruel.”

Richard raised an eyebrow and caught the fresh beer the bartender slid down the counter. 

“That’s never been a problem for you before.”

The mercenary shook his head and waved. “Play your game, Little Bird.”

It was fascinating to watch Grayson slide into a role. He glided off the bar, loosely swinging his beer by the neck, and sauntered over to the pool tables. Richard moved gracefully, masked or not, but this was a few shades shy of a strut. Confidence suited him.

“You guys got room for one more?”

The three at the table looked him up and down, his loose stance and slightly unfocused smile.

“Yeah, why not. I’m Steve,” the portly man said, “and these are Pete and Jake,” indicating the men on either side of the table.

“Rick,” Grayson said with a rakish grin. 

“Well, Rick,” Pete said, “it’s ten bucks to put into the pot, if you think you’re up to it.”

“Oh, you’re on, Pal.” 

He’d shifted his accent, adding a hint of North Gotham drawl, so “on” sounded like “awn”. Richard purposely fumbled slightly with his wallet, looking clumsy while fishing out a ten. Slade hid a smirk behind his drink. This was going to be fun. 

* * *

A few purposely bungled easy shots—and one or two “lucky” trick shots—later, it was safe to say that hustling pool was one of Richard Grayson’s many skills. 

Pete crowed as he sank three balls in a corner pocket, to Richard’s hearty congratulations. Yet, even as he cheered and encouraged the other players, occasionally giving good advice, Richard’s winnings were quietly growing. He’d both hustled _and_ befriended the bastards. All of the Bats had excellent people-reading skills, but Grayson was foremost among them. He was certainly the best at social interaction: it was one of Nightwing’s distinguishing traits, after all. 

Slade knew Grayson wasn’t a cruel person, he wasn’t taking pleasure out of conning the men—he was _playing_. He could have completely fleeced these numbskulls. From one point of view, it was almost cute: harmless and innocent. From another perspective, it was like a cat toying with its prey. With what Slade knew of the bird’s abilities, he preferred the latter. 

It fit well with the image Richard chose to project tonight. He’d ditched the denim jacket, leaving him in a form-fitting white tee. Between the curl falling effortlessly loose from his tousled hair to his low boots, he could give Red Hood a run for his money in the “bad boy greaser” aesthetic. One of the schlubs at the rickety pool table noticed Slade’s lingering glance.

“Ehy Rick, that guy with the eyepatch, he’s lookin’ at you funny.”

Grayson threw his arms wide. “I’d like to think I’m a funny guy,” he quipped, which earned a round of chuckles. Richard looked at Slade with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Hey, Sailor!” he called, “you want in on the game?”

Slade choked back a laugh. The drunken patrons took it as a pirate joke, but Grayson _absolutely_ intended the double entendre. He turned to face the pool tables, letting his elbows rest behind him on the bar. It was natural to let his words carry collected confidence and subtle danger.

“Only if you want to lose all your money. I’m decent at pool.”

“What about in a fight?” someone shouted.

That got the bar’s attention, hooting and hollering at the prospect of bloodshed.

The portly man slapped Richard on the shoulder. “Whaddya say, Rick? We can use the pot for prize money.”

“Maybe you should switch to water, Pete.” The Gotham accent came out stronger, so his word was closer to “wudder” than “water”. “That guy looks like he could snap me in half.”

Grayson flashed Slade a quick hand-signal, asking if he were game. Slade was a simple man: he liked fighting, fucking, and a job well-done. He grinned like a wolf and rolled his shoulders. The corner of Richard’s lip twitched upwards. 

“Hey Rick! Don’t you start another fight,” the bartender called. “I don’t want the cops here.”

“Evry’body knows the cops ‘round here are Hood’s men,” he waved at the bartender’s protests, “but yeah, Tom, I’ll take it outside.”

A good portion of the bar’s patrons ushered them into the adjoining alley. Someone had snagged two stools, and set them up on opposites of a loose ring formed by the onlookers. Richard dropped his jacket on one, and pulled his shirt over his head. 

“Weapons?” Slade asked, doing likewise. 

As discreetly as he could manage, Slade pulled his sidearm from the small of his back and tucked it in the folds of his jacket. 

“Fists only,” proclaimed Pete who, with the way everyone listened to him, was apparently some kind of regular. “First blood?”

“Nah,” Richard said—Slade would heal too fast, and it would be impossible to hide. He grinned at the mercenary. “ _Submission_.”

The crowd liked the idea, swapping personal bets while he and Grayson squared off. Richard held out a hand, sportsman-like. They both had to handicap themselves: Slade couldn’t appear more than a decent fighter, and Grayson had to appear a drunk. 

“What’s your name, Sailor?” he asked with a teasing smile.

“Will,” Slade replied, slapping his hand in a firm shake.

“May the best man win, _Will_ ,” Grayson drawled.

Pete put his hand over their linked hands. “Alright! First man to submit, loses. Winner gets the pot. _Fight_!” He pulled his hand up like a referee and quickly stepped back.

They started to circle each other; Grayson didn’t raise his fists like a traditional boxer, nor did he mimic the curved open-hand of drunken kung-fu, but kept a general, loose stance. Even in this play-fight, Richard would never put himself within Slade’s range—that was fine, Slade was perfectly happy to make the first strike. 

Blood sang in his veins. Slade never felt more alive than he did in a fight, never more focused. He let himself drift into that headspace, and _moved_. With a light step, the mercenary darted towards the bird, faking a slight telegraph with his left hand and punching with his right.

Slade was very, _very_ good at predicting behavior—near infallible. One of the things that made Nightwing such an intriguing opponent is that he was difficult to predict. Richard saw right through Slade’s deception, drunkenly dodging the punch and listing as if he were going to fall. Instead of taking any of the many effective and obvious counters, he _jammed_ his bootheel in the top of Slade’s shoe as he attempted to “recover” his balance. 

Slade roared and turned to punch the little shit, but Grayson pretended to stumble forward, dropping into a gymnast’s roll, following Slade’s turn so he came up behind the mercenary. Normally, Slade could have dove forward himself to buy distance, but he was blocked by the ring of spectators. He could have used some of his speed to turn, but he couldn’t hint at his abilities. 

His mind ran through avenues of attack, straining to hear anything from Grayson over the hollering of the crowd. Slade heard not a noise before white-hot pain _lanced_ through his lower back. He gasped a tiny, rattling inhale. 

The goddamn motherfucker had _kidney punched_ him. Slade knew it was far from a full-power strike, but it still hurt like the Devil and was enough to give a hardened man pause. That split-second of hesitation was all Richard needed to drop his full weight into the back of Slade’s knee, bringing the mercenary to kneeling. 

Grayson would have probably liked to ride Slade all the way prone, but he’d need a joint lock to keep Slade down—something too sophisticated for a drunkard. Instead, he pinned Slade’s knee, and snaked an arm around Slade’s neck, aiming to use the bony part of his forearm to put the mercenary into a sleeper-style blood choke.

The crowd roared. 

“Do ya yield?” Richard taunted into his ear.

A _different_ kind of fire burst to life within Slade. Richard’s whole torso pressed against Slade’s back, skin hot and smooth. While no match for metahuman strength, Grayson _was_ strong, upper body heavily muscled from his preferred acrobatics. Slade relished the feeling, inhaling the vibrant energy which poured from Grayson, his heart slamming against Slade’s skin. Every other sound—the entire world—fell away, leaving only himself and Richard. 

With a little smirk, Slade twitched his hips, pressing into Richard’s groin. The unmistakable gasp was a symphony. 

Really, the little bird would be so much better _under_ Slade, and a fatal flaw in Grayson’s strategy provided the perfect opportunity. The mercenary had enough mass, combined with the leverage from his free leg, to throw them both to their backs. Slade pulled as much of his weight as he could—otherwise he’d crush the bird—but didn’t hesitate to grind Richard’s shirtless torso into the rough pavement. The jolt loosened Grayson’s choke, and Slade dug an elbow into his stomach to free himself entirely. 

From there, it was easy to swing into a mount pin, sitting astride Richard’s chest. Slade grinned as he pulled back for a punch, and Grayson’s face dropped comically fast.

“ _Shit_ ,” he cursed, legs scrambling in a futile attempt to wiggle free.

Slade’s punch didn’t land. He expected Richard to roll his head to dodge, he _didn’t_ expect the man to lunge up and cling like a koala. For the barest split second, Slade felt lips press into his chest before Richard swung to the side and escaped.

It _looked_ messy and desperate; in reality, it was anything but. Grayson’s legs _hadn’t_ been uselessly flailing. He’d crossed his left foot over his and Slade’s right legs, using his ankle to pull Slade’s ankle between his thighs, thus freeing his right leg and breaking the pin.

Grayson was clambering to his feet when someone shouted, “It’s Nyx!”

The neat ring exploded into a chaotic throng. Drunken men, and a few women, ran in every direction. Richard snatched his shirt and jacket, motioning for Slade to follow with a jerk of his head. Slade did likewise, and tailed the bird as he gracefully darted through the crowd. 

A laugh rose in the mercenary’s chest. It felt like he’d been caught scrapping in the schoolyard, and his calloused feet were beating down the dusty road, fleeing the marm who’d take it out of his hide. 

Instead of a dusty road, he ran down Gotham’s filthy streets, a few paces behind Richard, who grinned ferally over his shoulder. Once they were a block away, Grayson grabbed the mercenary’s hand and yanked him down an alley. Richard held up a hand before Slade could say a word, and pulled out a cell phone, angling the screen away from Slade’s view. 

“Nyx is two blocks in the opposite direction; we’re safe.”

He bit his lip, smiling up at Slade with a glimmer in his eye. A giggle slipped out of his lips. The mercenary grinned and snorted. They both broke down in laughter, leaning on the cool brick wall.

“So, is _Rick_ a known entity around these parts?” Slade asked as he pulled on his shirt and slid into his jacket. 

“Yeah, he’s a friendly airhead with some serious good luck.”

When Slade turned around, he found that Grayson was back in his own tee and jacket. Slade leaned one arm on the wall over the man’s head.

“He’s a slippery, cheeky bastard.”

“What of it?” Richard crossed his arms, chin tipped upward, and a saucy smile played on his lips.

A hint of tongue flicking between those lips spurred Slade, riding high on their fight and escape. _This_ was a game with no stakes. Slade closed the distance, capturing Richard’s mouth in a firm kiss. The bird kissed back with a happy groan. He tasted like beer and adrenaline and something unnamably vibrant.

Slade _wanted_ him, and moved to press Richard against the brick, but Grayson lightly pushed back, neatly rolling under the mercenary’s arm while tucking a slip of paper into Slade’s pocket. He glanced over his shoulder with a smoky smile.

“Tonight was fun. Next time _you_ are passing through, give me a call. It’s a personal line; I always answer.”

With a jaunty salute, he pulled himself up the fire escape, and disappeared onto the rooftops. Slade stared, somewhat stupidly, watching the bird fly away.

Had he just gotten Nightwing’s number? Jesus, the man was not right in the head. But, Grayson was a good fight, and most likely just as good in bed.

Slade grinned, hand curling around the note in his pocket. Yes, they’d see each other again, some other evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary is from “I Know a Place”, by MUNA. However, the cover by Forte has a very different tone, and was the part of the backbone of this fic from the beginning.
> 
> I forgot to mention earlier— “Nyx” is Tim. I don’t call his graduated edition “Red Robin” because I feel that it doesn’t give him enough independence and personal identity. Dick becomes Nightwing and Jay becomes Red Hood, both of whom are distinct. By keeping “Robin” in his second evolution, Tim is tethered to the identity of Robin and can’t spread his wings. We love all the Robins in this house, and they all deserve the chance to fly.
> 
> “Soldier Boy”— _Nightwing_ (1996) #18
> 
> Joker burning Haly's— _Nightwing_ (2011) #16,
> 
> Joker kidnapping the Bats— _Batman_ (2011) #17
> 
> Bruce explicitly lied to the fam about Joker— _Red Hood and the Outlaws_ (2011) #17
> 
> The Joker almost killing Jay again— _Red Hood and the Outlaws_ (2011) #17
> 
> Damian's death— _Batman Incorporated_ (2012) #8, _Nightwing_ (2011) #18
> 
> Noonan’s Sleazy Bar— _Batman Eternal_ #28
> 
> Ric is a pool shark— _Nightwing_ (2016) #50
> 
> Delta Force— _Titans_ (2018) S02 Ep03 “Ghosts”
> 
> In Rebirth, Slade is only mentioned to be “Special Forces”. I’m taking his placement in Operational Detachment-Delta, (colloquially, “Delta Force” or “The Unit”) from _Titans_ (2018). These guys are crazy, scary good.


	3. Some Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some nights I wish that this all would end._   
>  _Yet I still wake up, I still see your ghost—Oh, Lord—I'm still not sure what I stand for:_   
>  _most nights I don't know anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to remove this from the summary and, like a moron, forgot to add it back: fic updates Tuesdays 11:30a ET.  
>   
>  ** _Content Warning:_**  
>  [Click Here]

* * *

#### June 3rd| 2a

Dick sat on the floor of the shower in his North Gotham safehouse. 

Hot water pounded down on his aching, tired frame. He wasn’t injured, just too exhausted to move. After Damian’s death, Jason asked Dick to keep an eye on his territory; he’d needed out of Gotham. Dick wasn’t sure _he_ wanted to be in the city, but someone had to try and hold Bruce together, and it certainly couldn’t be Tim. He was only sixteen, and had suffered a brutal year. 

Nausea crept up in Dick’s throat at the memory of Ra’s throwing Tim out a window, and Tim not even reaching for a grapple. As clear as day, he could see the baby bird plummeting to the unforgiving ground— _No_. He had to cut that off _now_. Dick allowed himself a pitiful groan and reached for the shampoo, and reminded himself to focus on the positive. 

One of the few good things in the recent past, oddly, had been Slade Wilson. Dick halfheartedly laughed as he rinsed his hair. How backwards was his life now, that _Deathstroke_ was the brightest point?

Dick couldn’t figure the mercenary’s game. Did Slade just want sex? He hadn’t made a move until they were both engrossed in the impromptu fight, and he’d had plenty of opportunity before that point in the evening. Dick wouldn’t have turned him down, still wouldn’t turn him down. The man did nothing by halves—it was almost guaranteed to be fantastic—and Dick had complete confidence that whatever happened would stay between them. Slade kept his word; he was an honorable man.

Before their surprise kiss, Dick had never thought of Slade in a physical way. In hindsight, his wording during their confrontation all those years ago had been horribly suggestive. It hadn’t registered because Slade was business, and honestly, he would have never believed that Deathstroke was interested in men. Everything about the guy screamed ‘straight male’, but that’s what Dick got for buying into stereotypes. 

He leaned his head against the tile, watching suds swirl towards the drain. Yet, this _was_ Deathstroke. The mercenary was almost certainly manipulating him, but Dick couldn’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t summon any emotion, really. He’d give a lot to just _forget_ for a few hours, to feel good.

Blindly reaching up, Dick turned off the shower, but couldn’t summon the energy to move. He sat in the tub, water dripping from his hair. _Positive_ , he needed to think about positive things. If Dick closed his eyes, he could remember looking over his shoulder as he and Slade fled Noonan’s, and seeing an unexpectedly _gleeful_ smile on the mercenary’s face. 

It made Dick grin now, just as it had then, and gave him the strength to paw a hand outside the curtain for the towel waiting on the toilet seat. He wiped away most of the dampness, finally standing and clambering out of the tub. Dick wanted to see Slade smile like that again, he decided as he dragged himself to the bedroom and crawled under the covers. As he fell asleep, Dick’s last thoughts were of the sound of Slade’s hearty laughter echoing in the dingy alley, like a ward against the creeping dark.

Maybe tonight he’d sleep in merciful blackness, not awaken to vivid nightmares of flames and swords and broken wires.

* * *

#### June 10th| 11a

Not two weeks later Slade found himself leaning on the wall of a New York payphone booth, dialing Nightwing’s number. He didn’t necessarily _need_ to pass through Gotham on the way to DC—in fact, it would be a detour—but the prospect of pleasurable activities with a certain bird would be well worth the diversion. 

The mercenary grinned to himself as he waited for the call to connect. Noonan’s had been unexpectedly fun. Slade usually didn’t usually have fun; life almost never sent him good surprises, and this was a welcome change. With a _‘click’_ , the familiar voice of Richard Grayson rolled down the line.

“Hello Caller, you’re on the air.” 

“Hello, Little Bird.” 

Slade nearly bit his tongue when the endearment slid from his mouth without second thought. 

Richard replied, voice light, taking the remark as banter. “Hey there, Soldier Boy. Are you passing through?”

It might have been his imagination, but Grayson sounded oddly relieved. 

“I may be, not business related. Are you working the night shift?”

“Actually, no. I asked for tonight off—will I be having company?”

Richard’s tone definitely perked up at the prospect of a visitor.

“If you’re not opposed,” Slade said casually. “I’ll be free around six.”

“Sounds good! On Newton and Park, there’s an apartment building with a red flower box. You’re looking for apartment 5D. I’ll leave the security disabled. How do you like your eggs?”

He paused at the non-sequitur. “Sunny side up?”

“Excellent! See you then!”

The line went dead. Slade looked at the receiver and wondered, not for the first time, what the _Hell_ he was doing.   
  


* * *

The building at Richard’s directions looked like many places in the Bowery: decrepit, grimy, and deserted. Still, Slade climbed the worn stoop and found the entrance unsecured, as promised. Unlike the exterior, the entryway was clean and well-lit. Clearly, this was a safehouse of some kind, and no disposable bolthole; somebody owned the entire property. The mercenary didn’t think it was a trap, but still, he exercised caution as he pushed open the door to apartment 5D. 

The layout appeared typical, a hall lead from the door to the back of the apartment, with rooms branching off either side—and it smelled divine. Slade could hear one person’s heartbeat and rustling movements. 

“I wasn’t aware that Bats knew how to use doors.”

A raven head poked out from a doorway ahead and to his right, grinning brightly. 

“Windows are so much more fun.” 

Pulling the door shut behind him, Slade snorted. Grayson tapped on a panel inset in the wall, re-arming the security. 

“It’s one of Hood’s buildings, if you were wondering. He lets me keep a Bat-free safehouse here.”

Nightwing and Red Hood were famous friends, despite Hood’s violence and Nightwing’s absurd refusal to kill.

“And the man himself?”

Though Slade had never personally done business with the man, he knew the crime lord to be straightforward and reasonable. Still, Slade didn’t think he’d take kindly to Deathstroke visiting his property. 

“Hood’s gone on a sabbatical; he’s probably in space, toppling fascist regimes with his friends.” 

The odd bird sighed fondly, as if it were a normal activity. Slade shook his head and followed Grayson into the kitchen. 

He didn’t know _what_ he expected, but it surely wasn’t Richard Grayson cooking dinner. The small table tucked against the wall was neatly set, complete with a steaming basket of biscuits. It set off alarm bells in his head. He wouldn’t be shocked if the Bat’s file had his place of birth, but how would Richard know that he loved breakfast?

“Coffee?”

“Black.”

He got a good look at Richard as he passed Slade a steaming mug. The man looked absolutely exhausted. 

“I didn’t expect to hear from you, especially so soon.”

Slade didn’t answer, because he was staring at the table, a small bowl in particular. Grayson looked over from the stove when Slade didn’t respond. 

“Has the table offended you in some way?”

“That’s gravy,” Slade nodded at the bowl, “but I can’t smell any sausage.”

“That’s because I made it with bacon instead.”

“ _Effing Yankee_ ,” Slade muttered into his coffee.

Richard choked out a surprise laugh. “What are you, some good ol’ boy?”

So, he was either playing dumb or didn’t know, and given how Batman drilled his brood, likely the former. Slade raised an eyebrow. 

“I was born in Kentucky.”

“Huh, that’s right, you were,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, I am sorry to offend your sensibilities, _Mr. Wilson_ ,” Grayson drawled, “but seriously—try the biscuits before you knock them.”

Richard pulled the frypan off the stove and slid the eggs onto their plates as Slade settled into the chair that afforded the best view of the door.

“Oh, I said absolutely nothing about turning down food.” 

Neither Grayson or Nightwing would poison him, if such a thing were even possible, and only a fool turned down a hot meal. The table before him held a tidy spread: steaming plates of fried eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, and sliced oranges. Any man who couldn’t cook an egg was hardly a man, in Slade’s reckoning, but biscuits were an art. Without preamble, he pulled one out of the basket, split it open, and took a bite. 

They were good, _very_ good: fluffy and light and buttery. Grayson watched Slade ladle gravy over the second half while he cut his own eggs. Slade hummed approvingly as he popped a hunk of biscuit into his mouth. Maybe gravy with bacon wasn’t the _worst_ thing in the world.

“Thought so.” 

Richard grinned like a cat with cream; Slade didn’t dignify that with a response. 

“Tell me, how does a filthy yankee like yourself know how to make gravy and biscuits?”

“I was born in a trailer, Slade.” Richard rolled his eyes. “Haly’s main route was the eastern seaboard. We’d winter in Florida, then strike up to Birmingham, following the major cities ‘till we hit Gotham in late spring. A few years we did Louisiana instead of Florida, but either way, at least half of the year was spent south of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

The circus’s routes were known to Slade, due to his research on Robin, but he didn’t know a great deal about its culture. The information wasn’t necessary and the only sources would have been in-person. Richard smiled as he recounted his unconventional youth.

“Evening meals were often communal, but sometimes breakfast was too. I’d get handed a box grater and pounds of butter.” He crunched on a slice of bacon. “My skills in the kitchen aren’t notable, but this is something I can manage.”

It was probably true, but Slade was a master of slanting truths. 

“So you decided to make breakfast?”

Grayson shrugged. “It’s not incredibly safe for us to be seen most anywhere in the city, and as fun as Noonan’s was, I’d like to spend my night off somewhere a bit more peaceful.” 

His eyes narrowed. “You think I’m up to something.” Richard sounded mildly offended. “I wasn’t up to anything five years ago, and I’m not up to anything today.”

“Forgive me for being suspicious,” Slade said sardonically, “we usually work opposite each other.”

A small, hysterical giggle slipped out of his lips. Grayson propped an elbow on the table and sunk his face into a hand. 

“Slade, I’m so tired. I’m almost certain _you’re_ manipulating _me_ into something, but I’m too exhausted to give a damn.”

Slade blinked. “I’m not.”

Grayson stared at him dumbly, fork hovering in mid-air. “Oh.” 

They stared at each other awkwardly for an uncomfortable moment. Since subtly was of no concern, Slade plainly redirected the conversation. 

“Somehow, I imagined you’d have more wholesome pastimes. Are sharking pool and back-alley brawls how you usually unwind? ”

“No, not at all,” he laughed. “I just went with the flow.” Richard mopped up the gravy on his plate with a biscuit. “Sometimes it’s nice to go where nobody knows your name.”

“You weren’t even alive when that show was on the air.” Slade snorted into his coffee, “and somehow the family still managed to show up unexpectedly.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered; there’s not exactly television on the road, and Nyx wasn’t supposed to be patrolling that part of the city,” Grayson finished sheepishly. “Speaking of family, how is Rose?”

Grayson had been very good for Rose; Slade took comfort in making at least _one_ right choice regarding his children. 

“She’s in her Senior year of high school, and made the honor roll every semester.” Slade couldn’t help but be unduly proud. “Rose made a name for herself after some of the local Hmong gangs tried posturing; all the neighborhood kids think she’s a warrior princess.”

A soft smile graced Richard’s face.

“I know you have pictures.” 

With a put-upon sigh, Slade pulled out his personal cell and brought up a recent surveillance photo.

“Jesus, she got big.” Richard flicked through a few, then laughed. 

“What?” Grayson flipped the phone so he could see it. “Oh, you found that one.” 

It was a personal favorite: Rose pelting a gang member with pieces of his own deconstructed gun.

“That-a-girl.” Richard’s smile was rich and warm. “She’s such a good kid. Thank you.” He handed the phone back. “Is Joey doing well too?” 

Slade’s face fell. 

“From what I can tell, yes. He’s working with his mother at Core Policy, living in Los Angeles.” 

“You mean HIVE,” Grayson spat. Slade blinked, surprised at his venom. “Core Policy has ties to HIVE. Sorry to trash-talk your ex-wife, but I don’t like her associates.” He sipped his coffee with a frosty glare. “Plus, she was always overbearing.”

“She’s my _ex_ -wife, Richard. One of the many things we don’t agree on is working with the Illuminati Beekeeper Club.”

“ _I_ _luminati Beekeeper_ —” Richard coughed. 

Slade chuckled and bit into his last orange slice. They fell into a natural lull. Slade was comfortably full, and his bones felt heavy. The air was close. Richard, plate clear, looked like he was going to drift off where he sat. As amusing as it would be to either watch him faceplant—or spook him awake—it would be rude, seeing as the man _had_ cooked them dinner. 

Wisely, the gravy pan was already soaking in the sink, along with the frypan. Easing to his feet, Slade cuffed his shirt and set to washing the dishes. The sound roused Richard from his stupor.

“You really don’t have to do that,” he said earnestly. “Honestly I’ll take care of it later.”

Slade ignored him and threw a dish towel at his face. 

“You’re drying, Grayson,” he ordered.

The response sprang from Richard’s lips: “Yessi—“ He squawked angrily and whipped the towel at Slade’s arm. “You’re such an asshole.”

“I have it on good authority that the term is ‘jackass’.” 

“I’m sorry, did you just make a _joke_?”

The more Slade saw Richard laugh, truly laugh, the more he wanted to see it again. He handed Grayson a freshly-rinsed dish. 

“I _do_ have skills beyond kicking the tar out of you and your little friends.”

“ _An_ _d your little dog too_ ,” Richard muttered, snickering as he dried the plate.

Slade flicked soapy water at the bird, who yelped and shoved ineffectively at Slade’s shoulder. He chuckled and handed Grayson another plate, who accepted it with a funny, soft look on his face. They worked through the accumulated dishes in companionable silence. 

“Put on the kettle, would you?” Grayson asked as he slid the last pan into a drawer.

Slade obliged, filling the electric kettle beside the stovetop. He wasn’t entirely sure how the night would proceed, but he was good at improvising. 

“I’m having tea and whiskey, would you like one as well?”

“If you’re making them.”

Grayson boosted himself onto the counter like a small child, fishing in the topmost shelf. His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth. It was eternally odd to see such youthful innocence and hard experience coexisting in a single person. 

“A hah!” he exclaimed, pulling out an orange tin. 

Slade opened it and took a deep breath: black tea with orange, cinnamon, and cloves. A bottle of whiskey joined it on the counter.

“I never thought you’d be one to drink.”

For all his flexibility, Richard liked control too much, not necessarily a bad thing; sobriety and temperance were admirable qualities in a man. 

“I usually don’t,” he said, spooning tea into a filter, “not when I have to be ready to take a call at any time.”

That wasn’t healthy—even _Slade_ knew that. He frowned, though Grayson took no notice. 

“Sometimes I’ll drink if I have company,” he said, indicating the whiskey, “and Hood and I have gone out to clubs on the rare nights we’re pretending to be normal and aren’t busy.” Richard paused thoughtfully. “It’s usually not very successful, not when you’ve been Bat-trained for hypervigilance. Mostly, though, I drink when someone dies—just one evening. I usually get drunk.”

That’s what Slade had probably interrupted. He leaned with his back to the sink, crossing his arms and smirking slightly.

“I thought the tried-and-true family coping method was punching Gotham’s trash-tier criminals.” 

Grayson returned the lemon juice to the fridge with a laugh.

“You’re not wrong, but I can’t be going to town on the criminal element when I’m trying to rein in Batman’s violence.”

Slade frowned again. “He’s a grown man, responsible for his own actions. You’re not his keeper.”

“I’m not,” Richard conceded. “It’s Robin’s job to stop Batman from going off the rails. Once a Robin, always a Robin.”

Slade opened his mouth, ready to point out how that was even _less_ appropriate than the first statement, but the pained look on Richard’s face gave him pause. Grayson poured a respectable splash of whiskey into each mug. He looked longingly at the bottle, considering, before shaking his head and replacing the cork.

“You’re an idiot.” 

Richard let out a surprised laugh, and he gave Slade a tired smile. “Once an idiot, always an idiot?”

“In your case? Probably. You’re too damn stubborn.”

“ _I'm_ stubborn?” Grayson cocked his hips and raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t there some parable about stones and glass houses?”

“ _H_ _e that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone_ : from the story of the adulterous woman, found in the Gospel of John.” Richard stared. “For the record, I never said I wasn’t stubborn.” 

The kettle clicked off with a _ping_ , and Slade retrieved it, pouring the steaming water into the teapot. 

“Like I said, my skills do extend beyond kicking your ass.” 

The corner of Slade’s mouth crept up in a grin. Picking up the now steeping teapot, he nodded towards the living room. 

“Shall we?”

* * *

The living room directly across from the kitchen was comfortable, half the space occupied by a sofa, which sat across from two well-worn armchairs. Slade placed the teapot on the coffee table between them.

This was familiar territory—drinks after dinner provided an easy transition to other places, like the bedroom. Slade slid his shoes off in the entryway and undid the top button of his shirt while Grayson shut the blinds. Warm lighting from floor lamps set a cozy mood. 

Considering where the night was headed, Slade opted for a seat on the far end of the couch, nearest the kitchen. Grayson passed the mercenary a drink, then sat on the opposite end of the sofa. He wrapped his hands around the mug and inhaled deeply, eyes falling shut with a happy sigh. Slade looked at him like the idiot he was.

“It’s the little things that make life worthwhile.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you sound like a Hallmark card?”

“Yes,” he sniffed. “It doesn’t make what I’m saying any less true.”

Slade didn’t hide his eye-roll, and sipped his tea. Despite Wintergreen’s best efforts, he wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but this blend was quite good. It was strong, bold, and paired excellently with whiskey. Grayson let his head fall back against the top of the couch, and stared at the ceiling. 

“Slade, why are you here?” He rolled his neck to look at the mercenary. “I’m not asking you to leave, the opposite actually—but I don’t understand. You may not be trying to con me, but you’re not a man to do anything without reason. If you just wanted sex, you could have easily scored at the bar.” 

Was the man’s memory faulty? He _had_ tried to start something, but Grayson stopped them.

“Why did you call things off, in the alley?”

“We were both hopped up on the fight and escape; neither of us were quite in our right minds. If we had more of a history, or if they’d been some direct signals earlier in the night, I would have happily continued.” 

It was almost disgustingly wholesome.

Slade shifted sidewards to face Grayson. “I’d say the more pertinent question is why are _you_ associating with me?” 

Richard shifted to mirror him, but brought a leg up to lean on the back of the couch. He grinned playfully. 

“Nice job dodging the question.” With a breath, he looked down into his mug, levity draining to something more solemn. “It’s something I like about you: you don’t lie. You’ll misdirect, or let people stumble into their own incorrect conclusions, but you don’t lie.” 

“Lying is wrong.”

Lying was sin, to be exact. It wasn’t complicated. 

Grayson looked at him oddly. “You have an interesting system of morality.”

“I’m pretty sure you already knew that,” Slade said wryly. 

The bird smiled.

“Why you? There are plenty of reasons.” Richard ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have to hide half of my life—lie about it—and I like being honest.”

“Really? I would have never guessed.” 

“I knew Joey had to get the sass from somewhere.” 

If sass were genetic, Slade couldn’t exactly refute that point. Addie had attitude, which Joseph _definitely_ inherited, but she wasn’t a smart-ass.

“Is it ironic that I don’t have to hide from you?” Grayson searched Slade’s face, as if it might hold the answer. “Even if I take the mask off, I’m still Nightwing to them: I’m still the team lead, the first Robin, the substitute Batman, eldest brother.” He pointed at the floor. “Right here, right now? I’m just Dick Grayson: former circus brat, acrobatics enthusiast, purveyor of puns, and general adrenaline junkie.” He caught Slade’s eye. “It feels like I can breathe.” 

Those eyes—the color of sapphire, cut like diamonds—were weapons. The whiteout lenses of Richard’s domino were a mercy. 

“You wear a mask, but you’re not a supervillain. Unless it pertains to a job, you couldn’t care less about what happens in the vigilante community. You certainly don’t care about what I do unless I get in your way.” 

Correct on all counts. Slade tipped his mug in confirmation. Blatant honesty was apparently the name of the game, and he appreciated Grayson’s plainness. 

“The other night at Noonan’s was the best entertainment I’ve had in some time. The prospect of sex is appealing. You’re interesting, and—” he paused, considering. “You’re one of the few willing to stand against me.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Of course I will, I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” he murmured. “I’m a scary man.”

Grayson put his mug down on the coffee table and scooted to the center cushion, arms crossed playfully. 

“Okay, Scary Man.” His eyes twinkled. “Yes, you are preternaturally strong and fast, brilliant, and more manipulative than Batman on his best day. You’re also honorable and professional, and from certain points of view, unapologetically honest.”

It almost sounded like Richard had forgotten who Slade was.

"Yes, I am a professional: a mercenary. I kill people."

Richard didn’t move, but gazed at the blank television screen. The mirror-like surface reflected rays of blood-red sunset that slipped through the blinds. 

"I know."

"Yet we’re still here."

Slade let Grayson reach out and pick up his hands. "I won't say I'm thrilled with your work, but I also know that the world isn't black and white. I've seen so-called heroes do awful things. I've seen supposed villains be selfless." 

Richard’s thumbs looked delicate as he rubbed circles into Slade’s broad palms. 

"You're not a supervillain plotting domination, you're not a monster who looks to cause suffering, you're just a man. Maybe you could stop being Deathstroke, but you'll never stop being a soldier."

Just a few weeks ago, Slade remarked on Grayson’s perceptive abilities. Having them turned onto him, in full force, was an unnerving experience. Very few people could strip him raw.

"Slade," Richard said, sliding one hand to rest over Slade’s heart, "I will never ask you to be something you're not."

The blue eyes and soft, earnest smile that looked up at him were too much. His chest felt strangely tight. 

“Do you understand that I won’t change either? Nothing short of death will stop me from playing hero at night and sounding like a Hallmark card ‘round the clock.”

"No, I would not ask that of you.” Slade reached to gently tip the man’s chin. “At my right hand you would make a beautiful and terrible weapon.” His eye slid over the bird’s clean brows, gentle jaw, full lips. 

Richard’s face was carefully blank. “Would you want that?”

Jesus, was he _actually_ entertaining the offer? It would be so easy to manipulate Grayson; he was putty in Slade’s hands, emotionally vulnerable from his recent losses, craving any kindness. A sympathetic word, a gentle touch, and he would be fed from the hand.

Slade let himself picture it for a moment, a predator with feral eyes: a renegade. When the bird in his mind laughed, it was not bright, but manic. Honesty and openness were sharpened into weapons. He found the image lovely, albeit in a different way than his bright bluebird. All the same, should Richard fall from grace, it would not be his doing. 

“I won’t deny the allure, but I have no interest in converting you to my ways. Should you find your own way there, I would not be saddened: a songbird and a bird of prey are each lovely in their own rights,”

Richard stared at him, expressionless. 

Then, in a blur of motion he threw his arms around Slade, tucking his head into Slade’s collarbone, knocking them both back into the arm of the couch. The mercenary froze, rather than instinctively throwing the man onto the ground. Slowly, Slade registered that this was not an attack or a sexual advance. It was simply…a hug?

Christ, how long had it been since he simply _held_ someone? At least a decade. He pulled Richard closer to his chest. Slade savored the feeling of silky hair running through his fingers, warm golden-olive skin beneath his hands. The other melted under his touch, sighing softly, tension slowly easing out of his frame. 

They didn’t speak. Slade was a sharp man, and he knew it, but the reaction didn’t add up. He was about to ask why, when he realized Richard was sleeping. 

Logically, it made sense. Slade himself could speak for the soporific powers of a good meal and hard drink after a long day. Another warm body went without saying, but that usually involved other activities first. It had almost seemed like he’d invited Slade over for dinner and sex. After dinner was tactful negotiating of boundaries. Richard was interested, but his primary goal wasn’t to get Slade in bed.

Slade idly played with Grayson’s hair, watching his steady breathing. The little bird was exhausted, likely reaching his upper limits, and felt safe with Slade—he would never let himself sleep otherwise. That was…unusual. This whole effing thing was unusual. 

Perhaps the man was simply looking for a distraction; he was alone and in pain. That aligned with his recent behavior. Sure, Grayson could be playful, but what Slade had seen during their past two encounters seemed oddly irresponsible for the bird. He was taking excessive and unusual risks, Slade not being the least of them. 

That was fine—Slade had no problem being a distraction—it was mutually beneficial. As long as these casual rendezvous didn’t interfere with work, there was no reason to stop. Richard’s face was tucked in the crook of Slade’s shoulder, breath softly ghosting his neck. He smelled faintly of cinnamon and whiskey and vanilla. It would be a delicious combination to taste, but it would have to wait for another night. Slade was a patient man; he knew how to play a long game.

Sleeping on the couch would only end with stiff limbs. Slade shifted, testing. Richard didn’t wake. He carefully scooped the little bird up and carried him to bed. Placing his sidearm under a pillow, Slade dropped his wallet, keys, and phone on the nightstand. Laying down over the untidy blankets, he shifted to let Richard’s head lie on his chest. The warm weight and gentle beat of his heart easily pulled Slade towards sleep. 

He could rest for a few hours, but the mercenary needed to be gone before the sun.

* * *

Dick is very, very depressed in the beginning of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary from "Some Nights" by fun..
> 
> Dick was born in a trailer by the big top — _Nightwing_ (1996) #14  
> 
>
>> When Dick says “trailer”, he’s referencing something most would know as an RV/mobile home.
> 
> Always a Robin— _Robin War_ (2016) #1  
> Slade is from Booneville, Kentucky— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #25  
> Haly’s has an office in Florida— _Robin_ (1993) Annual #4  
> Dick training Rose— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #4, #19  
> Rose fucking up Hmong gangs— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #10  
> Joey, Core Policy, LA— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #10  
> “Illuminati Beekeeper Club” _Deathstroke_ (2016) #7  
> Wintergreen calls Slade "Jackass", sometimes fondly, sometimes as an insult— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #1  
> Slade doesn’t lie— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #15  
> Tim's passive suicide attempt— _Red Robin_ (2009) #12  
> Dick likes being open and not hiding his life— _Nightwing_ (2016) #15  
> “...cast the first stone”— John 8:7
> 
> Mason-Dixon Line— This is a geographic line which was used to informally reference the separation between slave-owning states and free states. The line runs along the southern borders of Pennsylvania and Delaware; all states below the line allowed slavery.
> 
> “Hello Caller….”— was a phrase used by radio jockeys to let know people calling into the station that they were live. My da uses it sometimes as a joke, and I adopted it for Dick’s use: it is distinctive enough to identify him to the person calling without using a name, and it’s silly.
> 
> "Where nobody knows you name..."— This a reference to the show _Cheers_.
> 
> "And your little dog too..."— The Wicked Witch of the West, from _The Wizard of Oz_
> 
> Good ol’ boy— A term used to describe a white, Southern man who has the characteristics of traditional conservative masculine culture of the region. It can be used in a positive or negative way.
> 
> Yankee—  
> To someone outside the United States, a Yankee is an American  
> To someone from the South, a Yankee is a Northerner  
> To a Northerner, a Yankee is a very specific kind of person


	4. Split the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's okay, it's alright,  
>  someday we will be fine.  
> Staring down the long night  
> waiting for the sunrise._
> 
> _It's alright, it's okay,_   
>  _I've been there in your place._
> 
> _Just lay your head on me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Content Warning:_**  
>  [Click Here]

* * *

#### June 19th | 9p

Case notes covered the coffee table. A mug of coffee sat on the end table, long since cold. 

Dick had read the last paragraph three times; willing himself to focus on the information just wasn’t happening. He dropped the manilla folder on the table with a resigned sigh. 

He hadn’t felt so damn alone, so isolated, since he first moved to Wayne Manor. When he fell out with Bruce, he had the Titans. When Bruce died, he’d had Babs, Alfred, Dami, and eventually Jay. The last time he’d lost someone like this, Dick had the circus as refuge, but Haly’s was in ashes. 

Dick leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Speaking of his Little Wing, the Outlaws were back from their most recent mission. Dick picked up his phone and thumbed to Jay’s number. At this point, he’d be happy just to hear Jason curse at him. 

Ever since his miraculous return to life, they’d always been there for each other, the closest of friends. Unlike Dick, however, Jason sometimes needed space, but he rarely left Dick hanging. Dick couldn’t talk to Jay about the utter devastation and misery that now dogged his every waking moment—Jason was suffering too and Dick didn’t want to burden him—but contact with _any_ friendly human would help immensely.

The line rang once, twice. He anticipated the caustic _What’s up, Dickhead_? like a child on Christmas morning. 

It rang a third time. Jay was probably swearing, looking for his _goddamn cellphone_ to see who was _goddamn calling him_. 

A fourth ring, fifth ring—it went to voicemail. The little hope Dick built in his heart was crushed, but he wouldn’t let that show.

“Hey Jaybird! I haven’t heard from you in a while; just calling to say ‘Hi’. Give me a ring when you’ve got a free minute!” 

Tapping the button to disconnect, Dick let the phone drop listlessly onto the couch and slid sideways after it, curled into a ball. He lay, hollow and empty. The hurt was a visceral thing, a rotting feeling in his stomach which crept like inky sludge through his veins. 

Dick turned twenty-four in a few days. Damian would never see his eleventh birthday; he’d been dead almost a month. Dick bawled like a baby when they lowered Dami into the ground. Now, it felt like he had no tears left to cry. Most days alternated between aching and numb emptiness. 

Tim needed him, Dick reminded himself, the kid had lost so much in the past year. He didn’t want _out_ , per say—as long as even one person needed him, he’d never even consider it—he just wanted the sucking hole in his chest to stop. He wanted to _rest_. 

Glancing at the clock, Dick saw there were only a few more hours until patrol…he’d just half nap, haze out for a bit. It wasn’t quite sleeping, nor was it meditation or wakefulness, but a kind of twilight where time slid by a little faster and the pain dulled.

Dick didn’t know how long he’d been zoned out when his phone jumped. He rolled, blindly searching for the offending device. Perhaps it was Jay—but, no: it was an unknown number. Pulling on the dregs of his strength, Dick summoned warm confidence.

“Hello Caller, you’re on the air.”

“Hello, Little Bird,” a rich, velvety voice rolled out of the speaker.

Something violently pulled in his chest, and Dick nearly burst into tears. He willed his breathing to keep steady.

“Little Bird? Are you injured?” Slade almost sounded concerned. 

“No, sorry—sorry.” Dick schooled himself, trying to fall into their usual banter, knowing he was missing the mark. “You in town, Soldier Boy?”

“No, I’m not, but I have a few minutes.”

“Oh.” Dick wasn’t sure why Slade would be calling him, if not to hook up, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “How’s the office?”

Slade chuckled at the euphemism. “Not too exciting.” 

“I’m not sure what passes for excitement,” he teased.

“Somehow I think your definition of excitement is worse than mine,” the mercenary said dryly. “You like jumping off skyscrapers.”

He opened his mouth to fire off a retort but paused. Slade did have a point. “Okay, maybe that’s _not_ the tamest pastime, but you can’t beat the view.”

There was a pause before Slade replied. The faint sounds of a city were audible, but loudest were cooing pigeons or mourning doves, the kind that liked to nest in the crannies of old buildings. 

“The view isn’t bad.”

God knew where he was, but it sounded as if he were looking over some foregin city. At least, that was what Dick wanted to imagine: somewhere far from Gotham and its weight.

“Have you been anywhere interesting? Nothing current!” he amended quickly, “I’m not fishing, but you get to see a lot of the world.”

Movement had always been the cure to sadness, Dick found. Movement meant growth and new experiences and meeting new people. Yet, he was chained in place by the needs of the family, which always came first. The mercenary hummed, and Dick hoped he’d humor the request. Slade was oddly tolerant outside of a professional setting, something Dick never expected of him. 

“Have you ever been to Dar es Salaam?”

Bat-geography was quite a few years past, but Dick could still name most major cities and their countries.

“That’s....Tanzania, right? I haven’t.”

“Yes,” Slade replied, voice dropping slightly lower. “I imagine you’d like the wildlife preserves, but Dar es Salaam is the capital.”

It was touching that Slade remembered a detail like that, if not somewhat creepy, because Dick certainly never mentioned his love of Haly’s animals.

“Dar es Salaam is generally unremarkable,” Slade began, “especially when compared to the majesty of Tanzania's savanna or mountains. It’s scorchingly hot, the dust and pollution mix with humidity to make an unpleasant slurry, and it’s crowded. Tourists generally avoid the place, but for locals it’s a mecca of commerce, because it’s home to the Kariakoo Market.”

He heard Slade shift, fabric rustling against stone.

“It was originally built by the Germans in 1914, but not actually opened until 1923, after the English conquered Dar. The market was rebuilt in 1974 by a native architect—it’s a fascinating building: three levels of ingeniously engineered concrete. The architect said he based the design on African markets, which are usually found under trees. The roof looks like great, tree-like funnels which serve to circulate air and trap rainwater in underground cisterns.” 

Where _Deathstroke_ learned to tell a story would likely be an eternal mystery, but Dick decided he could probably listen to Slade talk about anything and remain interested. With superhuman perception and recall, he could describe the marketplace in vivid, living detail. Slade wove a living tapestry of the market, from dusk to dawn.

His voice rose and fell, cresting like waves: slow and easy when describing the early mornings, faster when describing the bustling afternoon produce stalls. The rhythm was nearly hypnotizing, and Dick was enthralled. His pain fell away, and for an hour, there was nothing except Slade’s voice, soothing and lapping at the edges of Dick’s mind. 

Slade was a mercenary; he killed people for money. It was all kinds of wrong, but so was a whole lot in the world, and in Dick’s life.

* * *

#### June 28th | 8p

Slade hadn’t been planning to pass through Gotham, but he no longer avoided the city as he once did. 

It was a bit of a risk, showing up at Grayson’s safehouse without calling beforehand, but Slade had to ditch his burner in France and Gotham had long since removed payphones. If Red Hood were home it was nothing he couldn’t handle. 

There was a light on in the window of 5D, so it was likely that Grayson was inside. Slade tried the outer door, knowing it would set off an alert, and waited. A scant minute later it popped open to a bewildered Grayson. He stood and stared at the mercenary, silent.

“May I come in, Little Bird?”

The man looked worse than when Slade had seen him last. His normally warm complexion was wan, the circles under his eyes were just as bad, and his eyes themselves—normally vibrant—were hollow. Slade idly wondered if he was watching Icarus fall in slow motion. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Grayson said hoarsely. 

He stepped aside and ushered Slade through the door. Richard re-armed the security system with a chime, then turned around and promptly walked into Slade. It was a natural reaction to wrap his arms around Grayson. The hug felt…good. It was nice, nice to hold someone.

“Hello, Richard,” Slade said into his hair. 

Grayson threw his arms around the man, hands fisting in the back of his jacket. 

“It’s good to see you,” he mumbled into Slade’s shoulder.

They stood a moment. Slade let himself bathe in the heat of Grayson’s body, the warm vanilla which was apparently his usual scent: not common for a man, but fitting for this one. 

Richard pulled back and looked up. “Do you…” he began, then froze, realizing he was inches from Slade’s face.

Slade tipped his head downward—it was the option. Did Slade want it? Absolutely, if it were offered. 

Grayson popped up on his toes, searching the one, ice-blue eye before tilting his head and pressing a soft kiss onto Slade’s mouth. It was sweet and sincere and sent a wash of warmth through his body. Strictly speaking, the mercenary’s encounters with men didn’t involve this kind of exchange, they were more to the point and aggressive. Yet Richard’s lips were full and very soft, though not quite as plush as a woman’s: it was a good middle ground. 

Since there was no one else in the building, Slade laced a hand in Richard’s hair, closing the distance with another warm kiss. Grayson moaned softly, melting into his touch; the man was starved. This wasn’t about sex, this was about comfort. 

Whatever the reason, Slade had no problem backing Grayson into the wall. He was pliant and eager under Slade’s body, but his hands didn’t wander from their death grip on the mercenary's back. It almost felt like necking teenagers, entirely too saccharine for Slade’s normal preferences. 

Or, it _was_ saccharine until Grayson bit Slade’s lip, rolling it ever-so-gently in his teeth, and Slade groaned. Like a room full of gunpowder, only a single spark was needed to set it alight. Richard’s hips bucked against Slade, and he couldn’t resist tracing those lips with his tongue, which opened eagerly. Slade chased the taste of sweet coffee, tried to lick it out of Richard’s mouth, earning pretty moans. Those moans drove his own hips in a roll, practically pinning Grayson to the wall. God, he wanted to _devour_ the little bird. 

Slade forced himself to pull back, and his voice was a gravely murmur when he asked, “do you have to go out tonight?”

“Yeah,” Richard’s response was breathy, “in about two hours.”

Irritation flared up in Slade, but not at Grayson. Richard wouldn’t be working himself to the bone if the goddamn Bat would get his shit together. Slade was sorely tempted to ask if Nightwing could take the night off, but the little bird was as much of a professional as Deathstroke. He could be patient. 

“Two hours is not near enough time for what I’d want to do to you—” anyone with a pulse could see Richard was exquisite, something to be savored “—and you wouldn’t be fit for patrol afterwards.”

The man gasped in a stuttering breath, but recovered quickly, a devilish smile on his face. The utter heat in his gaze could set Slade aflame. 

“I’d like nothing more than to take you back to my bedroom,” his gaze raked down Slade’s body, “but if I get my hands on you, I’m not going to want to stop.”

Slade liked drive in a man: he liked it in business, he liked it in bed. This was pushing all the right buttons, a match he hadn’t experienced in a long while. Slade let out a breath and pressed one final, chaste kiss on Richard’s lips before forcing himself to step back.

“You can still come up, if you’d like,” Richard offered. 

Slade followed him to apartment 5D.

* * *

“Are you…living here?” He looked around, taking in the folders and papers scattered around the living area. “I thought you said this was a safehouse.” 

“It _is_ a safehouse—but yes, I’m living here. It’s too much to live in the Manor, and I don’t want to stay where Dami and I were living.”

Why Damian Wayne would be living with Richard instead of his father, Slade didn’t know, but it wasn’t his business. Personally, he couldn’t think of a single person who would actually _want_ to live with Wayne. He followed Grayson into the kitchen, where the drip brewer was just finishing a fresh pot.

“What exactly are you doing?” the mercenary asked as Richard pulled out two mugs from the cabinet over the counter. “Don’t say ‘making coffee’.” 

Slade swiped gently at the back of the man’s head. “You know what I’m asking.” 

Richard looked at him with a tired, but genuine smile, which only served to highlight his poor state.

“I have no idea what I want to do next with my life, but for right now I’m needed at home, to support the family.” He stared at the last stream of coffee dripping into the carafe. “Three months ago, I was Batman, helping run the Justice League, raising B’s indoctrinated child, a presence at Wayne Enterprises, and co-managing the estate.”

Slade froze. “The last Robin was Batman’s biological son?”

“We kept it very quiet.” He shrugged. “I know you’re wondering about the mother. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, since they’re both dead—it was Talia.”

“Talia _Al Ghul_? Batman had a kid with Talia?” 

Jesus Christ. Sure, Talia was a great lay, but she was also _insane_. 

Richard raised an eyebrow mid-pour. 

“Can you see now how I’m not awfully bothered by our,” he made a vague gesture, “association? They had a thing for a while when I was young. Obviously, B wasn’t aware of his contribution; Damian was genetically engineered and incubated. Talia dropped him on our doorstep last June. He and B did not get on well—B practically locked him in the manor.” 

The venom in the bird’s voice and snap of the fridge clearly said what Grayson thought about _that_ choice. He eyed Slade with something close to humor. 

“Rose was a surprise, but at least she didn’t attempt to murder other members of the household.”

Yeah, Slade could imagine a brat raised by Talia wouldn’t be kind: deadly and skilled, but not kind.

“So when Batman disappeared—”

“Died.” Grayson’s voice clicked with the sharp rasp of the spoon on his mug. “Superman brought back his bones; another thing we kept _very_ quiet. It wasn’t until almost a year later that we learned it was Multiverse nonsense and he was beamed through time.”

_Shit_. Tonight was _informative_. That gave a new dimension to the situation. Slade scrambled to form a picture in his mind. “Died, then. You took in Batman’s kid?”

Grayson stared at him like he was stupid, and if the bird hadn’t looked like utter shit, Slade might have taken offense. 

“Of course I did, the boy needed a father. It took some finagling, but had the documents done so it was all legal—he wasn’t going back to the League if I had anything to do with it. On paper he had two dads; Talia can kiss my ass.” As an afterthought he added, “I don’t think it was ever reversed, either.”

“I moved us all out of the manor, took up the cowl, passed him Robin, and started making tentative plans for the next eight years of my life.” 

Grayson set his mug on the counter and pressed his face into a hand. 

“Sorry. I know it’s been a month, but part of me still expects him to come through the window and scold me for moping.” Richard spoke in a sharp, pretentious falsetto: “ _Abi_ , you are pathetic! Pull yourself together and get in uniform—we have work to do.” 

Slade’s Arabic was almost as good as his English, but even someone with basic comprehension skills could have translated that word. The little Bat called Richard ‘ _my father_ ’. 

He stood, dumbstruck, watching Richard laugh brokenly. Grayson wasn’t grieving for a brother-in-arms on that rooftop, he’d been speaking _literally_ : he was crying for a _son_. If Slade had been a colder man, he would have taken dark pleasure in watching a former Teen Titan suffer the _exact_ pain they’d inflicted on him. Instead, he felt sick. 

Slade put his mug on the counter, and wrapped his arms around Grayson. 

“You never need to apologize for this,” he said firmly, and pressed his face into Richard’s hair. 

After the searing pain of Grant’s loss, one of the only things that brought a modicum of comfort was the knowledge that his boy was in a better place. Given Damian’s upbringing, any such idea would likely be untrue, which left Slade with little to say. 

Richard shook exactly once, curling his fist into Slade’s shirt. Everything about the past month aligned: the uncharacteristic risky behavior, worsening state, lowered inhibitions, desperation. Grayson was trying to hold his family together and mind Wayne, all while grieving. His happiness in talking with Slade for hours now made sense—who the hell else did he have? Slade guided Richard back to the couch, and pulled him to sit with his back to Slade’s chest. 

“Tell me about him.”

Richard against Slade, cradling his mug, and opened his mouth. He promptly closed it again, thinking better of it, and took a careful sip. After a moment’s thought, he hooked a leg around the coffee table, pulling it closer so he could access the laptop. With a few taps, he pulled up a video file. Richard pressed play and leaned back into Slade’s chest.

The mercenary quickly assessed it was mid-morning, in one of the public rooms in Wayne Manor. Aside from a baby grand tucked in the corner, the space was completely empty, save one boy, his violin, and music stand. It was odd to see Robin in civilian clothes, without mask or cape or Kevlar-plated tunic. He looked so small. He looked so _normal_. It reminded Slade of Joey practicing—and the mercenary immediately shoved that thought into the depths of his mind. 

It was easily tucked away when Damian began playing, because _god damn_ , the kid put professionals to shame. His selection was instantly recognizable as the third movement from Vivaldi’s _Summer_ : a passionate, violent piece. Sure, Damian was technically perfect, but his true skill shone in how he pulled pure emotion from the strings. The kid’s face was raw: eyes closed, brow drawn up in a hard line, practically oozing the conflict embodied in the melody. Slade was enraptured.

The video clicked off when the boy lowered his instrument, slumping slightly. Grayson stared at the screen in silence, lost somewhere in his mind. 

“His favorite season to play was summer, followed by winter,” Richard said slowly. “Damian was like a bolt of lightning: unforgettable, powerful, and gone in the blink of an eye. He was raised to inherit one of the most dangerous criminal empires on the planet and chose his own path. I am _so_ proud of him.” 

Richard’s voice was damp, and broke slightly on the last words. With a fortifying breath, he continued. 

“Robin knew how to injure, how to kill, how to cause pain. He knew how to lie.” Grayson’s tone grew softer. “He knew how to make art—not just music, his drawings were phenomenal; he’s working on an oil portrait of the whole family.” 

Slade closed his eye. He didn’t have the heart to correct Grayson’s tense. 

“Damian adored animals, it was one of only ways he’d be openly affectionate. He had a habit of acquiring pets.” The little bird chuckled. “Like many normal boys, he had a dog and a cat, but he also had a pet cow he’d rescued from a slaughterhouse and _Goliath_ —the last dragon bat of Bialya he’d raised from its infancy.” 

Richard titled his head back, looking at the ceiling, clearly searching for composure. 

“We thought B died, and this absolutely lethal, angry, hurting child needed a dad. Sure, at some point in my life I wanted children, but not at twenty-three. I’d spent the first twelve years of my life in a circus, and the next eleven in tights. What the hell did I know about raising a kid?” He dropped his head with a shake. “Then, I realized, Damian didn’t know much about being a kid—we’d figure it out together.”

“‘ _We were the greatest, Richard. No matter what anyone else thinks_.’ It was the last thing he said to me.” Grayson whispered. “I have to remember that I gave him nine months of love, something he’d never had before in his life.” 

Slade didn’t know what to say to that; he’d never been good at reassuring or comforting, and he’d long since forgotten whatever he’d learned. The mercenary stalled, taking a sip of his drink before returning it to the end table. He had to say _something_ into the gaping silence, though. He opened his mouth, and words tumbled out: 

“I was twenty-three when Grant was born. Addie and I were both career soldiers; kids were something neither of us planned—but birth control isn’t perfect. Suddenly we had Grant and he was the most important thing in the world. He Addie’s brown hair, her cunning, and her razor-sharp mind.”

Some of the undimmed, pure wonderment tinged Slade’s voice. He remembered the awe he’d felt, looking down at the newborn child in his arms. He and Addie had created _life_. He had a _son_.

“I’m not exactly parenting material, but I at least tried to make sure he grew up strong and skilled. I taught him to shoot, to track an animal, how to read the environment, how to survive with a knife and a lighter. Grant was a natural—better than I was at his age, and I’d started younger.” Slade would like to think he was a better teacher than his own. “He loved being a big brother, though that mostly took the form of overprotective bullying.”

Richard snorted into his coffee.

“When the conflict in the Middle East started, Grant was nine and Joey was five. Grant thought I was some kind of hero,” the mercenary said bitterly. “Me, and eventually Deathstroke, even though he didn’t know we were one in the same.” Slade shook his head. “Why am I even telling you this?”

Richard’s hand wrapped around his. “Because, at least to some extent, I understand. Because it’s safe. Because it feels like our fault that they’re dead.”

It didn’t _feel_ like Slade’s fault, it _was_ Slade’s fault. 

“You were in Delta Force by then, and really good at what you did. I’d guess you first sent on assignment not long after the attacks. If you were deployed near constantly for seven years, how many months a year were you home?”

“They had me teaching for some of it,” he admitted, “though that was out-of-state. Once we were in Qurac, it was ninety day rotations on active duty: I’d be in the US for three months, on average.”

The Unit were honed predators. In Qurac, they were mostly nocturnal, but never consistently enough so their sleep schedules could adjust. It was ninety days of adrenaline highs, crashes, the constant stress of hypervigilance, blood, and death. Everything blurred together into an unending smear of hits. 

Slade loved seeing his boys, but leave was never pleasant; he could never adjust back to a civilian home after being on the front lines. He was used to rolling out of the Green Zone with his team, amped on the knife-edge, and praying to Christ that they didn’t hit any IEDs. 

Rolling out in a sedan wasn’t unusual—sometimes subtly was called for, and subtle armored personnel carriers were _not_ —but pulling out of a driveway to take a kid to Scouts or Youth Group was alien. There were no explosives hidden in the piles of leaves which gathered in the gutter, the car next to him at the stoplight wasn’t going to open fire with heavy-duty assault rifles. 

Vigilance, the skills that kept him and his men alive, didn’t simply _turn off_ when he landed on US soil. The Sandbox was hell, but Slade learned suburban Maryland was hell, too. 

As the years went by, it got worse. Addie was angry, and he no longer understood how to communicate with a child. Eventually it was simply easier and less painful to not return home.

“Aside from taking a desk position—which, let’s be honest with ourselves for once, would have been a bad choice for many reasons—what could you have done to save Grant?”

He’d thought about the same question for countless hours and never found a satisfactory answer. Grant convinced Addie to let him transfer school districts so he could be part of the JROTC at the neighboring high school. When he was accepted into an ‘program for promising students’, why should Slade have suspected anything? 

The grip on his hand tightened, the voice was firm and fervent. “ _Listen_ . You didn’t connect him with HIVE. _You_ didn’t experiment on him. _You_ didn’t send him out on that contract.” 

Grayson set his mug aside to hold both of Slade’s hands. 

“Yeah, someone of your caliber could have slaughtered a bunch of fifteen-year-olds, but not him. Do you know why?” It was rhetorical. “Grant _was_ doing a fine job of kicking us to kingdom come. What he didn’t know was that I had backup on speed-dial. He had me by the throat, and I was one free hand away from calling _Superman_.” 

Richard sighed. “What I’m saying is: HIVE gave him a poisonous serum and sent him on an impossible mission. It’s not your fault that Grant died.”

Slade wanted to protest, but Grayson continued.

“I know, logically, that it’s not my fault Damian’s dead. I didn’t drive a sword through his chest, but some nights—most nights—it feels like I might as well have. _I_ gave him Robin in the first place.” 

The mercenary could feel tremors wracking Richard’s smaller frame. 

“Slade, he _literally_ died defending me. He stood down a foe five times his size and strength, in direct defiance of his own mother. He set aside his no-kill vow to his father when he shot Heretic through the heart with a crossbow—all to try and save my life. When I came to, he was gone.” 

The little bird’s chest heaved and shook, and Slade gently thumbed circles into the back of his hand. This, at least, was easy logic.

“Of course he defended you; you were his Ab.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to be, Slade!” Grayson cried, twisting to face the mercenary. “ _We’re_ supposed to defend _them_!”

Even now, Slade could feel the desperation, denial as he cradled his son’s too-still form. He was a _boy_ , just a boy, not yet eighteen. Slade was his father, and a father was supposed to protect his children. _His_ children were not to be in any true fight, certainly not combat, before they grew to manhood. 

“I know.” 

He reached out and pulled Richard against him, head resting on Slade’s shoulder, trying to chase away the phantom feeling of Grant’s lifeless body. 

“There is no glory in war or battle, but Damian was raised by the League, and would see his end as honorable: take small comfort in that. Talia told him to do one thing and Batman another, but he _chose_ to defend you, Richard.”

A sob muffled into the mercenary’s shoulder.

“Then, by that logic, Grant’s death wasn’t your fault either,” Richard whispered hoarsely. “It isn’t either of our faults.”

Damn Grayson and damn his immaculately spun arguments. Slade scrambled, searching for a hole in the reasoning, because he knew that it _was_ his fault. If he’d been around more, if he’d tried to connect better with his son—if, if, _if_. Yet, he knew there was no use dwelling on ‘what ifs’; the world was too variable and unpredictable. 

His breath caught, then a broken laugh bubbled from Slade’s lips. 

“Goddamn you, Richard Grayson.”

Richard was _right_ ….Grant made those choices. Slade damn well knew he’d taught his son that there was no shame in asking for help when met with a foe beyond one’s abilities. If the boy ever doubted or feared, he knew he could turn to his mother, who was well-trained and well-connected: in a word— _powerful_. Every boy must grow into a man, and men made their own choices. 

Richard was _right_ . A tear rolled down Slade’s cheek; his breath hitched. Realistically, there was nothing he could have done to save Grant. _He could not have saved his son_. Slade buried his face in Richard’s soft hair, and wept. 

Slade wept for his son, who died a child. He wept for the fact that the boy died _senselessly_. 

The truth felt like scalding fire in his chest. It _hurt_. The searing pain in his heart and lungs and pit of his stomach—the feeling of utter failure, the grief, the regret, the immense loss—burned like a physical ache. He wept harder, shaking and clinging to Richard, whose physical presence grounded Slade, a focal point against the unbearable agony in his mind and body. 

His reaction triggered Grayson, and they both cried like utter fools until their tears were entirely spent. Together, they lay in a haze, wrapped around each other. There were no words; this was quiet solidarity.

A sharp buzz of a communicator broke the tired silence. Richard pressed his face into Slade’s chest. It buzzed again. The little bird sighed. “ _On your feet. On your feet, Grayson_ ,” he heard Richard mutter under his breath. 

The vigilante dragged himself out of Slade’s arms and disappeared into—what Slade thought was—a closet off the entryway, but was apparently some kind of gear room. A few minutes later he reappeared in full Nightwing regalia, sans domino. Slade spoke as he approached the couch.

“Richard,” he croaked. The man hummed and looked down at him. “My next contract is longer, three weeks, maybe. It’s not radio silence, but I’ll likely be out of communications.”

Grayson set his mask on the coffee table, and laced his hand in Slade’s. 

“Thank you for letting me know.” 

He knelt down on the carpet, gently kissing Slade on the forehead. 

“Be safe.”

Richard tilted his cheek to press against where he’d kissed, holding it for the space of a few heartbeats. The communicator buzzed again. He sighed. 

“Stay as long as you need, just don’t try to snoop or hack, please.”

The moonlight through the window cast long shadows over Richard’s face. With a weary shrug, he pressed the domino to his face.

“Nightwing reporting.” 

The vigilante slid out of the window, into Gotham’s night. 

Slade laid on the couch long after Richard left. He felt...burnt out, hollow: like scrubland after a wildfire. He was _exhausted_. The place was decently secure, and he didn’t need to be anywhere—Richard _had_ said he could stay. Slade blinked slowly, then there was blackness.

When he opened his eye again, the room was inky: blinds closed and curtains drawn. Someone had covered him in a soft blanket. He wasn’t alone, and his senses instantly told him the clean scent of soap and heavy vanilla was a freshly-washed Grayson. The heartbeat was close, on-level with him, and the cushion shifted minutely under Slade. Richard was likely kneeling, leaning his head on the couch.

“How did you do it, Slade?” he whispered, barely audible. “It feels like I’m being slowly crushed.”

“Arsenal and Star have Hood, but Timmy’s got no one—he’s sixteen, still a kid. Bruce will self-destruct if left to his own devices. I know I’m the eldest son and brother; it’s my job to keep the family together, to watch out for everyone. I’ll do it—I can make myself get up, keep moving, but…” Richard made a soft, pained noise. “How much longer until there is nothing left?”

Perhaps Icarus had been the wrong myth, maybe Atlas was more apt. Grayson may have been a Titan, but he was only a man.

“One day at a time.”

With a gasp and _thump_ , Grayson startled and slid backwards. Slade rolled onto his side and reached out to cup the silky-smooth jaw. Tonight had been intense, but he’d had years to deal with Grant’s death; Damian had been gone barely a month.

“You take it one day at a time. It will always hurt, but wounds scar eventually.”

Some scars were more vivid than others, some ached constantly, but it was true. Richard’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into the mercenary’s palm. A shaft of light from the kitchen played over his features. Slade was struck by Richard’s strength and beauty, even in his pain.

“We’ll be okay,” the little bird said softly. “We’ll be okay.”

“Come here,” Slade said just as softly. He pulled Richard to lay atop him, tossed the blanket over both of them, and draped a hand on the back of the bird’s neck. 

“ _Shh_. Settle down and close your eyes.” 

The weight of Grayson’s head on his chest, the warmth of his body pressed against Slade, eased the mercenary’s mind: it filled the ashen, empty places like gentle sunlight after a rainstorm. For the first time in his life, Slade felt the warmth of absolution. 

Was this _grace_? A man like Slade didn’t deserve this kind of mercy. In the same breath, he knew it wasn’t his business to judge what he did and did not deserve. God could deign to send him forgiveness or punishment; all Slade could do was speak the honest truth. 

His eye drooped again, pulling his tired body and mind back to sleep.

* * *

Dick is very, very depressed in the beginning of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slade was tracking a mark through Kariakoo Market. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ wyd lmaoo
> 
> Vivaldi— “L’Estate” _Op. 8 No. 2 in G minor: III. Presto_  
>  The Summer movement is supposed to mimic a thunderstorm.
> 
> The “Green Zone”— An area in Baghdad under the control of Coalition forces. Anywhere outside the Green Zone was the “Red Zone”, and the Red Zone was a roulette with death.
> 
> IEDs— Improvised Explosive Devices. aka, homebrew bombs. These were perhaps the most deadly and prolific weapons used by insurgent forces.  
> As one of my sources put it: “...no matter how well trained you are, it’s no protection against bombs big enough to flip an armored vehicle, or capable of punching a hole in the side with a red-hot metal rod that will zip around like a berserk hornet tearing up and burning through everything it stings.” 
> 
> JROTC— “Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps”. This is the high school version of ROTC, a program run by the US gov’t which allows a person to earn a 4-year collegiate degree, then enter the military as a commissioned officer.
> 
> Dick moving them to the Penthouse— _Batman and Robin_ (2009) #1  
> Slade thinks Talia is crazy— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #31  
> Slade has slept with Talia— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #32  
> Damian was externally incubated— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #32, _Batman and Robin_ (2011) #0  
> Bruce locking Dami in the manor — _Deathstroke_ (2016) #32  
> Superman returning with Bruce’s body— _Batman_ (1940) #713  
> Damian plays violin— _Batman and Robin_ (2011) #0, _Robin: Son of Batman_ (2015) #1  
> Bruce’s eulogy— _Batman Incorporated_ (2012) #9  
> Damian could paint— _Batman and Robin_ (2011) #0, _Robin: Son of Batman_ (2015) #1  
> Damian’s oil of the family— I can’t fucking find this  
> Batcow— _Batman Incorporated_ (2012) #1  
> Titus— _Batman and Robin_ (2011) #4  
> Alfred the Cat— _Batman Incorporated_ (2012) #6  
> Goliath— _Robin: Son of Batman_ (2015) #6  
> Grant idolized Deathstroke— _Teen Titans: The Lazarus Contract Special_ (2017)  
> “We were the greatest…” — _Batman Incorporated_ (2012) #8  
> Damian’s last acts— _Batman Incorporated_ (2012) #8  
> Joey played piano— _Tales of the Teen Titans_ (1984) #44  
> Joey sang— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #50, _Tales of the Teen Titans_ (1984) #44
> 
> To be clear—Slade is _not_ blaming Grant for his own death. It’s more of an acknowledgement that part of being a teenager is growing up and making choices; parents aren’t going to be around forever. Of course, all parents hope that the lessons learned from the consequences of those choices aren’t too harsh, but sometimes they are.


	5. Red Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! I've got a meeting at 11:30, so y'all get today's chapter a little early.

* * *

#### July 25th | 6a

After three long weeks in Central America's oppressive humidity, Gotham summertime was practically paradise. 

Slade was very much looking forward to some R&R with a certain little bird. Unfortunately, when he'd called from a payphone in the nearby city, Slade found that Drake was crashing with Grayson, so they'd have to meet up somewhere other than his apartment. The mercenary let Grayson name the time and location—if anyone knew how to hide from the Bat in his own city, it would be his Robins. 

It was dim in the predawn hour, but Slade couldn’t miss the abandoned warehouse’s side entrance, left conspicuously open. The mercenary strolled inside of the seemingly empty building, main floor clear of everything but dust and dirt. He stopped in the center, loose and easy.

A smile curled across his face. “I can hear you, Richard.”

“Aww,” a familiar voice whined, “you’re no fun.”

Slade turned towards the noise and opened his eye. “Are you going to come down, Little Bird?”

A shape tumbled from the rafters, sticking a flamboyant landing, and straightening into a grinning Richard Grayson. 

“For you, I suppose.”

He began to walk—no, _prowl_ —towards Slade, shifting to sprint in the blink of an eye then jumped, locking his arms on the merc's shoulders. Slade grabbed the little bird’s waist and spun him around, laughing.

He didn't look worse, but he didn't look much better, though that might have something to do with the current time and a vigilante’s normal schedule. Grayson tucked his head close to Slade’s chest. The mercenary hummed and idly ran a hand through his hair. Yes, he’d definitely missed the feeling of the little bird’s body. 

"I wasn't aware you were ever awake at this hour."

A mischievous glint played in Grayson’s eyes when he looked up through his lashes at Slade.

"I can be, given the proper motivation."

Slade's hands slid down to Richard's hips. "Is that so?" he murmured. 

Grayson popped up on his toes but stopped just shy of a kiss.

"Yeah," he breathed against Slade’s lips, “but you’re in Gotham, Darling.” 

With a twist and snap of his hips Grayson broke from Slade's grasp, and he was gone, firing a grapple into the rafters, laughter in his wake. Slade looked down and saw that Richard palmed him a second grapple gun. So he wanted a chase? Slade grinned savagely. He could chase. 

Calling on some of his enhanced speed, Slade landed on the open loft in seconds. The little bird made it only a few steps before Slade tackled him to the dusty ground, caging him on all fours. 

Richard's eyes were saucers: his heart, hummingbird wings. "Hel _lo_." 

"Hello, Little Bird," Slade purred into his neck.

The mercenary licked a long stripe along his jugular, savoring the small gasp, which melted into a moan. 

“No marks,” Grayson breathed. “Normally I’d say anything below the suit, but I can’t exactly go back to the apartment covered in hickies.”

He tutted. “Later, then.” 

Slade leaned back and shucked off his jacket, and Richard quickly tugged the merc’s plain undershirt loose, running his hands along Slade’s back. God, _yes_. If they weren’t in public, Slade would have torn the shirt over his head, inviting the little bird to drink his fill. He dropped down and greedily kissed those plush lips.

Slade groaned. The last time they’d kissed had been fairly chaste, this was anything _but_ : it felt like Richard wanted to crawl inside his skin, trying to touch every inch of Slade’s body. 

“You don’t have to support your whole weight, let me feel you.”

Slade pulled down the zipper on Grayson’s sleeveless warm-up, only to find he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. The mercenary looked at Richard with lust-darkened eyes and ran a broad palm slowly down the beautifully sculpted chest. Grayson shuddered, eyes fluttering. He rolled the mercenary’s shirt up to bare most of his torso.

“Let me feel you,” he said again, but this time in a whispered plea.

Slade was all too happy to mold himself against the little bird’s lithe body, tongue sliding into his mouth. Grayson grabbed his hips and bucked into Slade, grinding them together. Slade wanted to hear Richard moan his name, see the bird shake as he came apart. He slid his hand down to the waist of Richard’s leggings, but his wrist caught in a firm grip.

"This comes as a shock to everyone, but I'm not an exhibitionist." Richard sucked in a breath. "The last thing either of us need is someone catching a photo of Richie Grayson getting it on with a mysterious older man." He grimaced. "We don’t need B on our asses, either."

Slade nipped at his neck in frustration. 

“However, there’s a break room in this building and I’m _perfectly_ willing to go down on you.”

It was tempting. _Sorely_ tempting. He groaned, and rested his forehead on Grayson’s shoulder. The image of Richard on his knees, mouth stretched, looking up at him with those blue, blue eyes—

"No," he rumbled. "I stand by what I said before: I want time to take you apart, and preferably a bed."

The serum made his refractory time very short, and Slade knew he’d want to fuck Grayson into the floor after a blowjob—a warehouse was no place for that. Good things came to those who waited. 

Richard leaned his head back, dust coating his hair like a fine grey mist. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Such a pretty thing laid out beneath him, Slade mused. 

Just because they couldn’t continue, didn’t mean they had to completely break physical contact, and Slade certainly didn’t want to keep his hands off the bird. He shifted to sit in the frame of one of the large windows, glass long since missing, with one leg idly dangling out of the building. The mercenary beckoned to Grayson. He wrapped an arm around Richard, who leaned against his chest, face resting on Slade’s shoulder. Dawn was just breaking over Gotham City, a blood-red sunrise.

“The view over the ocean _is_ great.”

“Through broken windows in the rafters of a derelict warehouse,” Slade said dryly. 

Richard gasped, faux-offended. “ _Mr. Wilson_! I’ve been nothing but proper. First, you tried to kill me. Later we beat the stuffing out of guys who were trying to kill us, then we fell into bed, and now we’re meeting each other in rundown buildings.”

It was probably a reference to something, but Slade just jabbed Grayson’s side.

“This city has twisted your mind.”

“Maybe so!” Richard laughed, and eased himself back against Slade. “How was the office?”

It wouldn’t hurt to share vague details; Grayson didn’t seem to be concerned with his affairs. 

“Nobody tried to knife me in my sleep, which was a highlight.”

Richard eyed him. “Is that...a common occurrence?”

“More than you might think.”

Admittedly, it happened far less than it had when he first started out in the business; reputation was important. 

Grayson snorted dismissively. “Anyone who openly attacks you has rocks for brains or a death wish.”

“This is a historic moment: you’ve admitted your own idiocy,” Slade said smoothly.

Richard muffled a laugh into Slade’s shoulder. “ _Jackass_.”

The mercenary rumbled a chuckle and pressed an indulgent kiss into the little bird’s hair.

“The office was humid. I effing hate the tropics: gear rusts and moisture gets in everything.”

The desert had been a sandy hell with its own challenges, but at least it wasn’t the jungles of Vietnam. 

“ _Ugh_ , a full mask must suck in that climate, dominoes are bad enough,” Richard agreed with knowing sympathy. 

It did, especially on long-term contracts where he needed to keep his face covered constantly, a definite downside to lodging on his employer’s base. 

“I have a few lightweight masks, for identity concealment rather than armor, that work well enough.”

Richard toyed with his goatee. “Is that why this is letting go of dye?”

“Yes.” 

Slade didn’t like dying his hair, but it was occasionally necessary. The white didn’t bother him, just as his missing eye didn’t either. 

“Just the goatee makes sense—roll your mask back far enough to eat or drink. I know you were blonde, but it’s hard to imagine anything but white,” Grayson mused. “What an odd genetic quirk.” 

Slade raised an eyebrow, unable to resist a little mental chess. “You think it’s genetic?”

Richard looked unamused. “Rose was born with silver-white hair, and that was before ESI.”

Almost nobody knew either of those details, something he’d kept secret for years. Slade planted a kiss on the little bird’s crown. 

“You’ve already got it figured.”

The general de-pigmentation and damage to most body hair follicles _wasn’t_ genetic—that was done by the serum—but there was no need to offer clarification. Whatever gene responsible for Rose’s hair was likely from Lilian’s proximity to Deathstroke during the first month of pregnancy. Back then, its sheath wasn’t lead-lined; Slade hadn’t been aware that volatile promethium was a mutagen. 

Sunlight caught on the silver cuff adorning Richard’s left wrist, where it rested on Slade’s thigh. Etched upon it were two black larks, each with a gemstone eye: one red and one yellow. Between their beaks was a larger, green stone. He’d not seen it before, and Grayson didn’t strike him as the type for jewelry, though it didn’t escape Slade’s notice that those were Robin’s colors—this was likely something highly personal, a memento. He considered asking, but the topic seemed too heavy; he didn’t want to break the easy peace.

Instead, he asked, “have you ever been to a tropical jungle?”

Grayson sat in silence for a moment, considering the answer, likely debating how much information he wanted to surrender to Slade. 

“The summer I turned sixteen, I lived in the Philippines for two months to study Arnis. On that trip, I spent a day on Mindanao, in one of the nature preserves.”

The tropics of Pacific weren’t exactly like those in Central America, but there were rainforests, all the same. 

“The forest was amazing, absolutely _teeming_ with life in a way I’d never experienced. The air was thick, dense and often misty. Everything about the place was fascinating, but the most memorable part of that outing was when I saw a Phillipine Eagle.”

Raptors were fantastic; Slade had seen a few in his life. If he remembered rightly, that particular creature was exceedingly rare. Somehow, it was fitting that one exceptional bird would meet another.

“They’re absolutely massive, bigger than a bald eagle. Yet, they’re incredibly stealthy—my teacher said it was difficult to spot one, not just due to their endangered status—and highly agile. The eagle weaved through the canopy with a grace I can only ever hope to achieve.” 

It was hardly a fair comparison; Richard was like poetry in motion, which came from training that started near birth and continued throughout his life. Few had the skills or abilities to truly impress Slade, but Grayson counted among them.

“Philippine Eagles have no natural predators, the apex of the food chain. They’re peerless hunters, incredibly efficient, and with these haunting blue eyes that are something like five to ten times as accurate as a human’s. My teacher told me that they’ll often hunt monkeys and can crush bones in their talons. I watched it eviscerate a pit viper.” 

There was an odd reverence in Grayson’s voice, not something Slade would think allotted to anything that killed. Perhaps the man considered nature under a different set of morals.

“Most teens go in for scouting or part-time jobs.”

Richard snorted. “Slade, I could meet the requirements for an Eagle Scout when I was _fifteen_. I would have to play stupid, lest anyone suspect. My part-time job was school, and my full time job was being Batman’s partner.”

The results couldn’t be disputed: a near-peerless warrior, but seemed sick and wrong. Fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t be spending their summers in intensive combat training, they should be awkwardly going on dates and learning to drive. Of course, voicing that opinion would likely result in an argument and reduce Slade’s chances of ever getting laid.

“When did you learn to drive?” Richard looked at him oddly. “It’s what most people do at that age.”

Absently, Grayson rubbed a thumb over the large stone on his cuff. 

“I was twelve. Pop Haly had a 1950s GM pickup: sage green with whitewall tires. He taught me to drive so I could move supplies around the site, but I wasn’t allowed off the grounds.”

Well, Slade had _tried_ to keep the conversation light.

“You learned manual?”

The little bird hummed an affirmation. “I was just tall enough to reach the clutch.”

Slade had been around the same age when he learned to drive his father’s Ford, but for less wholesome reasons: Charles was often drunk.

Richard laughed unexpectedly, pressing a hand to his face. “Oh god, I haven’t thought about this in _forever_.” 

“When B first took me in, I wasn’t exactly agreeable; I was angry and moody.”

Watching one’s parents get murdered then removed from the only family and life one had ever known _might_ have that effect, Slade mused.

“He wasn’t home for my thirteenth birthday—Wayne Enterprises business—and I was mad. Well, at the time I thought I was mad; I was really just sad and hurt. I wasn’t trying to act out, or get attention, I just wanted to _go_ —to feel _free_.” 

There was a sense of yearning in the little bird’s voice. Generally, Slade wouldn’t believe such an act to be anything other than a cry for attention, but from Richard Grayson? A cage was a fate worse than death.

“Bruce has a collection of classic cars.” Slade smirked. “One car, a silver 1989 Porsche 911 Turbo, caught my eye.” Richard shivered, then continued in whispered awe, “zero to sixty in four-point-six seconds. I didn’t know cars could drive like that.”

“Did you crash?”

An elbow gently dug into Slade’s stomach. “What do you take me for?” he chided playfully, “of course I didn’t crash; I went joyriding around Bristol because there’s nothing but empty roads and rich rube mansions. After I had my fun, I returned the car to the stable before B got home, and slept like a baby.”

Richard’s skin shone golden in the blood-orange dawn, light playing on his near-wistful smile. He rested peacefully in Slade’s arms, long lashes resting on his cheeks. He looked good like this, not soul-weary and exhausted, but at ease. Richard was beautiful, like Achilles—or better—Apollo: shepherd of youth, averter of evil, an embodiment of harmony, order, and reason. 

“ _This town rips the bones from your back; it’s a death trap_ ,” Grayson murmured.

“It is,” Slade purred, running his thumb on a high cheekbone, “you better get out while you’re young, Little Bird.”

Richard’s eyes popped open, shining, and he laughed as bright as the rising sun. It was a sight the mercenary couldn’t resist: tipping his head slightly, Slade bent and kissed him. 

Perhaps it would be more apt to say that the little bird was born to fly, rather than to run. Kissing him was a rush, and Slade wanted nothing more than to fly with him. Richard responded eagerly, twisting for a better angle, and rolling Slade’s bottom lip in his teeth. 

It was an odd place—Slade found himself wishing that this kiss would quickly proceed to more pleasurable acts, but also desiring to stay suspended in this airy, light space. He was saved the choice when Grayson’s phone rang shrilly, destroying the moment like a pin piercing a balloon. 

Richard made a pitiful noise, pressing his face into Slade’s shoulder. He didn’t let it ring again, though, before pulling it out of his hoodie. Slade got a glimpse of a _very_ unsightly photo of Tim Drake, asleep and drooling on his laptop, before Richard swiped to answer.

“Hey Baby Bird, everything okay?” Grayson shifted slightly. “I couldn’t sleep so I went out for some free running in plainclothes. I’m watching the sunrise over the ocean.” He hummed. “Everything is fine—go back to sleep, Timmy. I’ll bring home coffee from the Turkish place that Hood raves about.” 

Hanging up the phone, Richard laid his head back against Slade’s shoulder. “I hate to leave, but if I take too long, Tim might start tracking me.”

Slade _hmmed_ in agreement, but was loth to release the little bird back into the city. He ran his palm along the warm, smooth contours of Richard’s bicep, enjoying the feeling and the way the other man sunk almost imperceptibly further into his arms. 

He wasn’t allowed the indulgence for long, though—Grayson rolled to his knees and turned to face Slade, cupping the mercenary’s face in his hands. After holding Slade’s gaze for a moment, he leaned in and kissed Slade. 

The fire came from absolutely _nowhere_. This was no parting peck, or ‘one more for the road’. This was some kind of _declaration_ , with passion and intensity like they’d been eyeing each other all night, and were now making their way towards the bedroom, tearing at clothing and knocking over lamps.

A small, confused noise slipped from Slade’s mouth as Grayson pressed their foreheads together.

“We could die tomorrow, and I’m not in the business of living my life with regrets. I don’t want to be bleeding out on the ground and think ‘wow, I wish I’d done that’,” he said in a low, sincere voice. With a last tender kiss, Richard whispered, "until next time, Scary Man."

Slade blinked stupidly. No coherent thought entered his mind, only amorphous feelings and the phantom sensation of Richard’s lips. He heard the _pthunk_ of the grapple gun, then the _clink_ of its release. Suddenly, it was as if every sense screamed in his head, and Slade leapt to his feet.

" _Grayson_!" 

Richard paused, turned. He looked up, question written in those bottomless blue eyes, to Slade standing on the edge of the loft. For the space of a heartbeat they stood, frozen. The mercenary had long since learned to trust his instincts, and those finely-honed senses told him to jump. In a few quick movements, Slade flipped his way down from the loft. 

“Here,” he showed Grayson a note on his phone. “Can you memorize that code?”

Richard repeated it back. “Yes, got it.”

Slade felt the weight of the medallion tucked in his pocket. _Something_ was coming, something big. 

“That’s a private business line that goes to Wintergreen, it is always answered. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to do anything to help you—you, and _only_ you—not your friends, not other Bats.”

“Slade, do you know something?” His gentle gaze turned apprehensive. “Is something going to happen?”

No matter how much he enjoyed the little bird’s company, business was business. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Slade muttered. 

Richard hesitated, but understood. He wrapped Slade in a tight hug and whispered: “please be careful.”

Part of Slade wanted to laugh at the idea of a frail, base-human vigilante cautioning the genetically enhanced super soldier. Yet, it was with a sinking, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he watched Grayson walk from the warehouse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim, _sits bolt upright in bed_ : “My little brother senses are tingling. I need to call Dick.”
> 
> Dick is referencing the concept of dating “Gotham Style”, as written by njw in _Where’s My Goddamn Dinosaur_. 
> 
> Eagle Scout— The highest rank in the Boy Scouts. Looking at the averages for the past decade, only _5.7%_ of Scouts reach the rank. Dick could have fulfilled the requirements, excepting “time in preceding rank”, by fifteen. 
> 
> Philippine Eagles are the world’s largest birds of prey. They are absolutely massive, at about 3ft (.92m) tall and with a wingspan of 7ft (2.13m). Here’s a really cool 2-minute video from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology with some great footage. [[Link](https://youtu.be/OH9WUvk-_20)]  
>   
> ESI— “Enhanced Soldier Initiative”— _Deathstroke_ (2016)   
> Slade’s sword is volatile promethium— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #10, 23, 46  
> Volatile promethium is a mutagen— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #10, #46  
> Dick’s joyride is based on an incident in _Titans_ (2018) S01Ep03 “Origins”
>
>> I’m _nearly_ positive the car in this ep is a Porsche 911 Turbo 3.3 1989. Aside from visual identifiers, it’s apparently considered one of the most desirable model years by enthusiasts, so it would make sense that Bruce Wayne would have one. That year and model _does_ go 0-60mph in 4.6 seconds and has a 5-speed manual transmission. [0-96.56kph]
> 
> Pop Haly’s Pickup— _Nightwing_ (2011) #3
>
>> There’s nothing that confirms the make or model of Pop Haly’s pickup. I did my best visual estimate.
> 
> Charles Wilson— _Deathstroke_ (2014) #3
>
>> Slade’s father is never given a name in Rebirth, as far as I could find. As much as I’d like to punt most of N52 into the aether, I’m using it as a source for his name.
> 
> Charles was an alcoholic— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #25  
> Charles’s truck— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #25
>
>> In the comic, we can see it’s a red pickup, but we’re never given a close look at it. I decided a 1960s Ford because I have Slade’s birth set in 1969, and the incident in issue #25 in 1979.
> 
> _This town rips the bones from your back_ …— “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen 


	6. Forever Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin, Lads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little chapter today ♡ Back to our regularly scheduled programming on Friday.

### July 30th | ?

When a deranged-looking Alfred Pennyworth approached Slade, asking to join something called the ‘Secret Society of Supervillains’, Slade cursed the effing multiverse and agreed. It was the only tactically sound choice. The mercenary knew something was big coming—this Society was bad news and clearly had ulterior motives—when he warned Richard about two weeks ago. Admittedly, he didn’t think it would be _this_ big. 

Deathstroke stood in the largest gathering of mercenaries, assassins, and villains he’d ever seen. Everything about this situation set his teeth on edge. For starters, he’d been yanked through a portal to the fallen Justice League Watchtower in Happy Harbor, Rhode Island by the silver medallion given to him by the evil Pennyworth. There were two publicly known rules about Deathstroke: he didn’t mess with anything magical, and he didn’t work for free. 

Second, there was a reason the criminal and morally-grey didn’t gather in large groups. Slade was seriously considering blowing Grodd’s head off when Aquaman’s trident clattered to the ground. It was followed by Wonder Woman’s Lasso and Superman’s cape.

“This world is ours,” Ultraman proclaimed from the Watchtower, ”and the Justice League is dead!”

There were no bodies: no body, no proof of kill. Slade would never believe Batman dead until he saw Wayne's body, especially after Grayson’s story. Monocle, a two-bit villain, was stupid enough to voice his suspicion, and was smote with Ultraman’s eye lasers. Effing moron.

“I say again—this world is ours. If you pledge your allegiance to us, it can be your world too. Those who question us are against us.”

Slade withheld a snort. Once, he’d pledged allegiance to America and its Constitution, but that was futile, like all things under the sun: Qurac taught him that much. They’d been told that Saddam had weapons of mass destruction, bioweapons—a threat to the United States. When Slade was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and given command of B Squadron, his increased security clearance painted a very different picture. That picture ignited unparalleled fury in his heart: the Bush administration blatantly lied to the American people and engineered a war for profit. 

In that day, he fell back on an eternal truth he’d known since childhood: there was _one_ lawgiver and _one_ judge, and He was the only being to whom Slade pledged fealty. The mercenary’s dark brooding was interrupted by the imposter Superman.

“Haul him up, Superwoman,” Ultraman ordered.

For the first time in a decade, Slade was genuinely shocked stupid. Nightwing, bound in Superwoman’s barbed lasso, was dragged on stage. Blood sprayed from his mouth as she wrenched him up by the hair.

The three began detailing their _grand_ plan, and Slade was never more grateful for his ability to passively intake and process information, because he didn't want to waste resources listening to their megalomaniac bullshit. How on Earth had they managed to snag Grayson?

Nightwing often appeared to take on insurmountable odds and triumph, but Slade knew that was from a combination of skill and planning. The bird took leaps, but they were never uncalculated, even if they looked blind. He would have retreated in the face of foes beyond his ability, and the Lord knew, Nightwing was a difficult bird to pin down. The only reason he'd stand and fight would be to buy allies time, and if that were the case, the doppelgangers would have those allies onstage. 

Slade searched Richard's form. He'd been beaten, badly, but there was a notable lack of defensive wounds. His eyes were closed; he didn’t appear to be completely conscious. It was a small mercy; Nightwing was man enough to face his fate, no matter how horrid. 

“Yes, Nightwing,” Superwoman purred. 

Deathstroke did _not_ like the sensual way the wretch laid her hands on Grayson’s face. Richard Grayson was a fine warrior and a formidable adversary. How tall and strong he had stood, even after the loss of his home, the death of his friends, his _son_! Weary, perhaps—what man wouldn't be—but unbroken. The Lord did as He willed, but Slade just might have to disagree with Him on this; Grayson deserved better. The mercenar braced himself for the sickening crack of a breaking neck, but it never came. 

“But his real name is Richard Grayson.” Superwoman wrenched off his domino. 

_Shit_.

“Grayson has many friends and many places he calls home,” she said.

“We know them all.”

Yeah, Slade was sure Owlman knew them all, the bastard. 

“We will hunt down and destroy everything this Richard Grayson cares about,” Ultraman continued. “All who oppose us—you risk not your lives, but the lives of those you cherish. Your family, friends and neighbors will die as you watch.”

Behind his mask, Slade’s lip curled. These usurpers were disgusting. A clean, decisive kill was a mark of skill and strength. Excessive violence, attacking those other than the target—those were signs of weakness and unprofessional besides. This lot was undoubtedly powerful, powerful enough to directly face any opponent on the planet. There was no need to resort to such threats; campaigns of terror were the tools of lesser beings: publicly killing Superman or the Flash would speak plainly. 

Yet, they didn’t have one of the ‘trinity’, or even a member of the Justice League. They had Nightwing, who might be widely-loved within the community, but wouldn’t have the same public impact as an A-lister. Anger came to a boil of frothy rage in Slade’s heart. 

What brutes! They didn’t even take the bird in a fight; they’d clearly laid an ambush. If they resorted to such tactics for _Nightwing_ , Slade seriously doubted the doppelgangers had gotten the League, let alone Batman. That made them liars and cheats, and Slade Wilson _did not_ appreciate when someone tried to cheat him in business. 

The crowd started dispersing. Deathstroke would play along—for now. Anger, banked to glowing coals, always served him well.

* * *

The Syndicate sent Slade and a team on a mission to nab the president, which went badly thanks to a former ally from his days in the service. From there, the group had been summoned to assist Power Ring in capturing Captain Cold. Ring opened a portal that dumped them into a basement of Wayne Enterprises, and the first thing Deathstroke noted were two people: Lex Luthor and Batman. 

Slade Wilson _was_ a patient man, but he was also not fond of taking orders and being tossed all over the country. If anything could overthrow the Syndicate, it would be the combined powers of Luthor and Batman. As much as it irked him to actually _save_ Wayne’s life, Deathstroke didn’t hesitate.

"Down, Luthor!" he barked, and shot Copperhead in his open mouth. The beast collapsed, freeing Batman.

From there, the fight was a wash. Some sort of Superman-clone-gone-wrong dashed Blockbuster's head into the floor and the Syndicate’s forces were eliminated. Luthor and his pet turned to Slade, with their proverbial fingers on the trigger. 

"The Syndicate is bad for business,” he said, lowering his gun, “a planet full of these assholes means no work; it’s simple strategy."

Luthor smiled like the slimy bastard he was.

“I always knew you to be sensible, Deathstroke. I’d be happy to hire you onto our team.”

With a tip of the head, Slade turned to side with Luthor’s forces, in a tense standoff with Batman and Catwoman.

Batman was railing off about ‘no killing’—Slade honestly would admire his dedication to principle, if he weren't such a sanctimonious prick—and relished the mental image of punching in the idiot’s teeth. The fact that Wayne put his sons’ lives below the most notorious criminal filth made the mercenary's trigger finger itch. If the man would stop being an idiot for _two seconds_ , he’d see that they needed to combine their strength. One thing Slade would hand to Grayson was that the little bird had the ability to work with a team, something his mentor never understood.

Sinestro reappeared from sending Power Ring for a dirt nap to disrupt their negotiations.

Luthor appealed to the Lantern. “Sinestro, we could use your help. Earth’s under attack by a parallel universe.”

“I’m to care, _why_?” He regarded their group disdainfully. “I’m only here to retrieve the yellow ring...which that coward somehow destroyed.”

“Green Lantern isn’t here.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Sinestro scoffed. “He’s off trying to lead a corps he has no business leading. True leaders don’t poll their lanterns and tally votes—they take responsibility for the hard decisions they make; they put the burden on their own shoulders.”

Slade...Slade could agree with a surprising amount of the Lantern's ideas, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that he agreed with a power-hungry supervillain.

“Y’ Speak l’ke a leed’r,” Black Adam mumbled through his broken jaw.

“Adam’s right,” Luthor said. “You’re the kind of leader Earth needs right now...imagine what a lesson it would be once Green Lantern learns you did what he couldn’t. Help me lead us to victory, Sinestro.”

_Oh_ , Luthor was a master manipulator. He was a bastard, but Deathstroke respected talent. Suddenly, they had _Sinestro_ on their side, and Slade’s day got a whole lot brighter. Of course, Batman had to open his mouth.

“No. This is a search and rescue mission first—”

“Richard Grayson?”

“Yes, Luthor.” Batman growled. “Once Nightwing’s safe, we take down the Syndicate, but all of you are going to work within the parameters _I_ set and follow the orders _I_ give. If we’re working together, I’m in charge.”

_Please_. Deathstroke, Sinestro, Black Adam, Luthor, and the Superman clone stared at the Bat.

Catwoman spoke quietly into Wayne’s ear. “Uh, Batman? They’re in charge.”

* * *

For something like the fourth time, Slade was thrown through _another_ portal, this time back to Happy Harbor. As far as teams went, their current line-up was decently strong, but Slade still didn’t relish the idea of taking the Syndicate in a frontal assault. Despite the tactically unsound plan, they crept down the embankment to the fallen satellite. It was rainy, dark—the sun blocked by Ultraman at the end of their little rally—and _quiet_. 

“ _RR_.”

“What’s B-Zero _RR_ -ing about? Did they spot us?” Cold asked.

”No one home,” the creature growled.

“Since when did your monster start talking, Luthor?”

Slade took the opportunity. “In the category of things that matter, if the Crime Syndicate’s not here, where are they?”

“A good question,” Sinestro agreed. “Ring, locate vibrational anomalies—specifically the Syndicate members.”

“ _Searching….anomalies located. Six heartbeats of vibrational anomalies currently 142 miles north, two located in the structure ahead_.”

That was eight, in Slade’s math. There should only be seven, now that Power Ring was dead. There might be a surprise waiting for them, and he didn’t like that kind of surprise. 

_Unsurprisingly_ , Batman had built himself a back-door into the Tower’s systems, enough to give their team sixty seconds of lead time before the Syndicate were alerted to their presence. It was better than nothing, Slade supposed. They shuffled inside, down a hallway to a main junction.

“Oh my god,” Catwoman whispered.

The mercenary _froze_. In the room directly ahead of them, Richard was encased in some kind of hell contraption, suspended on a small dais in the center of the chamber. He was alive, Slade noted with relief: Grayson’s heart was a bit slow, but steady and strong.

“I’ll take care of Batman, the rest of you split up,” Luthor ordered. “Find the Syndicate members, and kill them.”

The Bat was too focused on Nightwing to voice protest. He ignored Luthor, marching ahead with Catwoman at his heels. Lex followed suit with his clone. As soon as they cleared the entrance, the door slammed shut. A sickening noise followed the resounding _clang_ : the faint ticking of a timer.

It tore at his heart to walk away—this was in this exact kind of situation he and Nightwing usually helped each other: small, quiet assists away from unfriendly eyes. Deathstroke was possibly the best mercenary on the planet, a lethal soldier besides, and only twice before in his life had he ever felt so helpless. He knew, however, that if anyone could save Grayson it would be Luthor and Batman. Slade focused part of his mind on the soothing sound of his little bird's heart, and strode onward.

He, Sinestro, and Black Adam broke off from Captain Cold and Manta, following a hallway to their right.

“ _Warning. Unstable nuclear energy source directly below_.”

“Unstable nuclear energy source?” Slade frowned. “What’s it talking about?”

“Ring?” Sinestro asked.

“ _Terrestrial metahuman known as Firestorm._ ” There was a breath’s pause. “ _Warning. Imminent threat. Six abnormal vibrational frequency readings rapidly approaching_.”

_Shit_. Slade looked out the hallway window. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

Glass shattered as the Syndicate burst through the windows. Owlman tackled Deathstroke to the ground, and he was about to shoot the fucker when the overstuffed bird leapt to his feet and strode down the hallway, away from the combatants. 

Slade knew _exactly_ where he was going. Still, it reduced the number of their opponents by one. Johnny Flash and Atomica went in search of the other half of their crew, further improving the odds. It was a regular brawl: Black Adam flew Ultraman out the window, likely peeved about the broken jaw, and Superwoman was trying to take a whack at Sinestro. Slade took a shot at Deathstorm to buy distance.

If Deathstorm was like Firestorm, he was above Slade’s pay grade. The mercenary danced around gouts of flame, biding time until he and Sinestro could join efforts against the meta. Superwoman’s lasso wouldn’t be effective on the Lantern, he had the greater willpower, so it was only a matter of time.

Suddenly, the soothing beat in the back of Slade’s mind spiked rapidly, beating like the wings of a hummingbird, spasmed—then there was a moment of unearthly silence. Deathstroke’s body continued to move on rote: duck, dodge, fire off a shot. The silence dragged on, without a stutter or throb. 

Numbly, Slade rolled behind a wall brace for cover, slapping a fresh magazine in his rifle. No sound meant no heartbeat. No heartbeat meant no life. Richard was...gone. The little bird was _dead_. 

As heat licked the edges of his armor and he popped out to return fire, Slade’s mind recalled the bright joy on Richard’s face as they fled Noonan’s, his own giddy delight. He recalled the closeness in Grayson’s kitchen, the steadiness of his gaze as he _saw_ Slade and was unmoved. Slade remembered how warm the little bird felt in his arms: the scent of cinnamon and whiskey and vanilla. He remembered hours spent on the phone—bantering, swapping stories about the places and things they’d seen. Slade remembered how Richard clung to him as they wept for their sons. Slade recalled the warmth of absolution. He remembered the last tender kiss the little bird had laid on Slade’s lips before leaving the warehouse.

Now, a scream nearly tore from those same lips. Slade could have given it voice: it would have been lost in the crack of lightning and subsequent explosion which rocked the whole installation. The blast shocked him back to reality. 

Richard was dead, and the world suffered no fools. Slade Wilson was not a fool.

Superwoman took off like a rocket after the lighting, and Firestorm fled too, but not in the same direction. Whatever the reason, they’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, they needed to bolster their force.

“We’re regrouping with Cold and Manta,” Deathstroke ordered. 

Sinestro nodded. “Ring, locate abnormally low temperatures.” 

He and Sinestro found the two next to Johnny Quick’s mangled body. Deathstroke assessed the scene. A prisoner had been held here, as the ropes and chair evidenced, and someone had punched an exit into the wall.

“Report. What happened?”

“So, uh.” Cold fidgeted nervously. “We found that other abnormality. The Syndicate was holding another person from their world hostage: Alexander Luthor.”

Just what they needed, the mercenary thought sourly.

“Except, this Luthor is a meta? He snapped Quick’s neck and absorbed his power somehow, then punched a hole in the wall and flew away— _after_ he said he was going to kill everyone and become the world’s most powerful hero.”

Deathstroke factored the new threat into the equation, considering possible tactics and weakness, then addressed the team.

“Nightwing is dead; Luthor and Batman failed.”

“How do you know?” hissed Manta.

“There were five heartbeats and a ticking timer when that door closed. There are now four heartbeats, no timer, and no explosion,” Deathstroke said succinctly. “Batman will be of no use to us now, and Catwoman will not leave his side. Assuming he is not delayed, Luthor and his clone should return shortly.”

He had their undivided attention. Good.

“Black Adam remains engaged with Ultraman. Our quarry has fled for unknown reasons. We will exit the tower and return to land to better assess the situation. Are there any questions?” 

Silence.

“On me.” 

Deathstroke turned on his heel, and froze mid-step. 

Richard's heart _slammed_ in his ears. He did a double-take, but no, that was assuredly his little bird’s heart. By some profound and mysterious grace, Grayson was _alive_. Relief crested over Slade like a tidal wave, dizzying in its intensity. 

”Deathstroke?” Cold asked hesitantly. 

“Listening. Luthor is on his way now.” 

Slade shook himself, and continued forward. _Alive_. Rain pelted their group as they climbed out of the Watchtower. Richard was alive, but how?

“Look, in th’ sky,” Black Adam muttered.

“Is that Alexander, fighting Ultraman?” Slade asked.

“It ain’t no good guy, Deathstroke,” Cold replied. 

_No shit_ , they were all threats. 

“He needs to die, too, Cold.”

A grating voice called from behind them. “Who does, Manta?”

Slade turned. “Welcome back to the _party_ , Luthor.”

They watched as Alexander threw Ultraman into a cliff face. Slade didn’t exactly want to tussle with anyone who could toss Ultraman around like a sack of potatoes. His eye tracked another movement—it was at the limits of his vision, but he spied Deathstorm turning on Superwoman.

Sinestro shouted. “Get close! He’s going to—”

Before the lantern had finished speaking, Slade nearly jumped backwards. Alexander crushed Deathstorm’s skull, setting off a small nuclear blast over the harbor. They would have all died in that moment, without Sinestro’s shield. Now, the killer’s sights turned on their detachment. 

It was only his enhancement that saved Slade: muttering a stream of profanities, he twisted, changing Alexander’s punch to a glancing blow. A direct hit would have been death; a glancing blow shattered his helmet, broke his nose, tore a chunk out of his left cheek and sent him to the ground. 

Slade lay on the cold grass, addled. It was...Tuesday….July thirty-first? He was in Rhode Island, Happy Harbor. Why the fuck was it so cold in July? Icy rain burned in the open flesh of his cheek, and he could taste blood in his mouth. Shouting rang tinny in his ears. Nausea, dizziness, tingling limbs, a fuzzy mind...a bad concussion. 

There was nothing fatal; he could already feel his skin itch as the tissue on his face knit itself back together, his broken nose would heal in a few hours. Yet, moving wasn’t an option. 

His mind floated, disjointed and fragmented. A ghost of a memory whispered: _I don’t want to be bleeding out on the ground and think ‘wow, I wish I’d done that’_. No—not a ghost, Richard was alive. _I’m not in the business of living my life with regrets_.

The mercenary could hear explosions, the crack of lightning, indistinct shouting, falling trees. _We could die tomorrow_. Slade lay and hoped the fighting stayed clear of him while his body patched itself together. _Don’t live with regrets_.

Time moved in a hazy, indistinct way. Eventually, the rain stopped, sunlight poured down on the Earth. The warm rays reminded him of Grayson. Slade lay in that light and knew one thing with certainty: he wanted his little bird.

No quarry had ever escaped Deathstroke. He would find Richard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue for the Syndicate taken from _Forever Evil_ (2011) #1, 5, 6, 7  
> Slade’s broken bones take “a few hours” to heal— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #42  
> Slade’s view of government— _Titans_ (2008) #4, _Deathstroke_ (2016) #8   
> The American gov't thinks Deathstroke and Katana are the most dangerous assassins on the planet— _Justice League of America_ (2013) #1  
> Slade’s rank— _Deathstroke Rebirth_ (2016), _The New Teen Titans_ (1984) #47, _Tales of the Teen Titans_ (1984) #44  
> 
>
>> Slade is called “Colonel Wilson” in Rebirth. However, the proper address for both a Colonel and Lieutenant Colonel is “Colonel”. Given that in previous continuities he was explicitly called “Lieutenant Colonel”, and the fact that Lt. Colonels usually oversee Delta Force squadrons, I decided to give him that rank
> 
>   
> On the Iraq War:  
> In hindsight, it’s abundantly clear that the American people were duped—it’s not a hot take or a conspiracy theory to say that the war was engineered. In a time before the internet was commonplace, before we had the ability to easily fact-check information and view aggregate data, we relied on newspapers and television. I can remember this time. Some readers may not, and it must be very difficult to imagine a world where one of your sole sources of information was the nightly news. 
> 
> For reference, here's the panel of the injury Slade took: [[Click to open image](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-HVtHIHAjXbM4Ggh0t_Ba7NMmlLuR2Ba/view?usp=sharing)]


	7. Perish Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some say the world will end in fire,  
>  Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _Content Warning:_ [Click Here]  
> **   
> 

### August 1st | 3a

In under twenty-four hours, Slade arrived at his Blüdhaven safehouse. 

“Safehouse” meant a small industrial building among other industrial buildings near the commercial docks. Its open floor left ample space for gear and vehicles, though the only transportation usually stored were an SUV and a bike. 

Slade pulled together a loose plan. Hood would likely be his best bet for a contact; it wouldn’t be unusual for a crime lord to associate with Deathstroke, and he was on good terms with Nightwing. Before Slade did anything, though, he needed to rest. Alexander had done a number on him, and he’d pushed himself to get from Rhode Island to Jersey so quickly. 

After a quick shower and shave, Slade fell into bed, allotting a few hours for his body to regenerate before setting out in pursuit. He was sleeping when his phone rang. 

"Wintergreen."

"Slade, I just had the most _interesting_ phone call."

He grunted, not in the mood for Billy’s sass.

"A _young man_ just rang the work line, immediately railed off an emergency code, and said it was urgent to meet with you—that you would know. He gave coordinates, said he'd be there starting at 6am local, and could stay no later than 9a. If you couldn't make it, he'd leave a package."

Slade was out of bed by the time Billy said "emergency code". The clock on the nightstand read 5:40am. 

"Those coordinates are in Gotham. Do you have a street address?"

"Half a moment, they're coming up now…” Slade threw the phone on speaker so he could thread a belt through the loops of his jeans. “It looks to be a warehouse, near the Kane Memorial Bridge. I’ll send the address to your phone."

Deftly, the mercenary fastened his eyepatch and tucked his Glock into the concealed holster at the small of his back. Slade knew _exactly_ which warehouse it was. 

"Received," he said, lacing up a pair of boots. 

"I want explanations at some point," the Brit demanded.

"I'll be in touch." 

He hung up, snatching the keys for the nondescript SUV, and headed out to find his bird.

* * *

As it had been weeks prior, Slade found the employee entrance conspicuously ajar. With due caution, the mercenary cleared the door, but heard only one sound within the building—one _beautiful_ sound. His head snapped towards it. 

“Little Bird,” he called.

“Slade?” a weak voice replied.

From the shadows in the far corner, Richard appeared, hand leaning on the wall. Slade’s heart leapt—it was _him_ —Slade couldn’t see his face, obscured by the hood of a sweatshirt, but it was undoubtedly Grayson. The mercenary tucked his sidearm away and quickly crossed the floor.

“ _Richard_.”

Slade wrapped him in a tight hug, and Grayson _screamed_. Instantly, Slade recoiled as if burned, the shrill noise echoing painfully in his ears. 

“What on Earth—”

“Sorry,” Richard gasped. “Sorry, give me a second.” 

He panted shallowly, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other propped on a knee for support. With a gentle hand, Slade tipped the man’s face into a ray of sunlight cutting through the dusty air, and couldn’t stop the horror that crept through him. 

"Jesus Christ, Richard. What happened?"

When he had seen Grayson imprisoned in that hell contraption, the wounds from the Syndicate had been healed. Now, the little bird’s face was mottled, surely to bruise within the next day.

He smiled weakly. "B and I had a discussion." 

"A discussion," Slade said blankly. "He did this? You mean, your father beat the ever-loving daylights out of you?"

A man, _never_ —under _any_ circumstance—laid a hand on his wife or children; the kids’ ages were irrelevant. Men who beat their families were utter _scum_ , and a special place in Hell awaited them. 

“I mean it sounds bad when you put it that way.” Richard held the smile as he tried to joke. "I like to look at it as a job interview—and I did win, in the end."

That _motherfucker_. His son had died, Wayne got his son _back from the dead_ , and this is what he did to him? Rage flooded Slade like a torrent, threatening to overwhelm every other thought and sense, leaving behind a being of pure, burning anger. He looked at the ceiling, letting out a long breath, reaching for calm; no matter how much Wayne deserved that kind of directed hate, it would not help Richard right now.

Grayson fished something out of his pocket and pressed it into Slade's hand. It was one of Nightwing's dominos, cracked down the center. On top of it, he added the metal cuff bracelet. 

"B is sending me on a deep-cover assignment. Nobody knows.” His voice wobbled slightly. “They think I'm dead. B said I couldn't tell them: my brothers, Babs— _Christ_ —even Alfie.” 

Richard paused for a moment, catching his breath. 

“All the cameras were shut off in the Cave, but the recordings on my mask should be intact. I don't know when I'm coming back. If I don’t, I'd like Hood and Nyx to have the truth. The bracelet is for Tim." 

In a show of strength, Grayson straightened, and for the first time looked Slade directly in the face.

"I gotta go." He tried to take a steady breath, even as his face trembled. "Please, Slade, can you do that for me? A year and a month?" 

The bird reached out, cupping Slade’s cheek with a discolored hand. Despite his injuries, there was a soft, reverent look in Richard’s eyes. “I should have probably left Gotham already, but I wanted to see you one more time.”

One more time? Richard leaned his forehead into Slade's chest, and Slade stared into the middle distance. He was going to lose the little bird again? Absently, he placed a hand on Richard's back, rubbing in soothing circles. Grayson _writhed_ , and jerked away with another aborted scream. Shrugging off the stabbing pain in his ears, Slade tucked the mask in his jacket and firmly held the other man by his shoulders. 

"Like _Hell_ you are." Richard started to protest, but Slade tugged his sweatshirt’s zipper. “Show me your back.”

He looked hesitant, almost fearful, but turned around and carefully slid off the sweatshirt. Slade’s mouth went dry. 

“What is _this_?”

Blood. Every _inch_ of skin, from the waist of Richard’s pants to the nape of his neck was caked in dried blood. It looked like a goddamn Taipei Death Match, with jagged gashes, a few longer than a finger: swollen, angry, inflamed. 

“The glass from Jason’s memorial case.”

Did Batman’s depravity know no bounds? The sole desire in Slade’s heart was to kick down the door to Wayne Manor, drag the rat bastard from his bed, and expose his utter villainy to the light of day. 

“He threw you into your dead brother’s memorial.”

It had been many, many years since Slade had any difficulty controlling his anger, but Wayne really inspired that in a person. 

“Yeah,” Richard said weakly, ducking his head.

The small, broken sound of his voice decided Slade. The mercenary spun the bird around, and put a loose hammerfist under his chin, tipping his head to look Slade in the face.

"Look at me, Richard,” he said softly. “Do you trust me?”

Blue eyes met his own and a smaller hand laid on his wrist. Grayson swallowed, but responded evenly. 

“Yes.” 

"You're coming with me; I can get you off the grid to one of my safehouses where you can heal. _After_ you recover, you can go on Wayne’s damned fool crusade."

Some internal battle waged behind Richard’s eyes, but he relented with a gentle "okay, okay."

“Status?”

Richard closed his eyes and reported. “Two ribs on the left, one on the right, bruised and possibly cracked. I did take some hits to the head, but I don’t believe I have a concussion. No drugs or other substances. Likely dehydrated.”

That was to say nothing of exhaustion, physical or mental. Grayson needed medical attention, but nothing would kill him in the next few hours; sepsis would be the biggest risk. A plan coalesced in Slade’s mind—it was certainly a leap, but he didn’t feel uncertain about his choice. He reached forward and gently pulled up Richard’s sweatshirt from where it pooled at his elbows. 

“I have a bolt-hole in Blüdhaven that is unquestionably secure. We’re going there first so I can look at your back. Once that’s taken care of, I’ll take you somewhere more remote. Broken ribs take a minimum of four weeks to heal. You will stay until then. Am I clear?”

There was a moment—a flash—of heart-breaking relief, and Richard looked at him as if Slade were the sun itself—which couldn’t be further from the truth. It was only a second, then it was gone, replaced by composed neutral. 

“How are we getting to Blüdhaven?” 

“I’ve a car about a block from here.” 

Richard nodded, picking up the bag by his feet. “Let’s get moving.”

* * *

Grayson was silent during the ride over; with broken ribs, speaking at all was painful. Sure, Slade had dished out a beatdown or two in the man’s days as Robin, and once or twice as Nightwing, but nothing to this extent. He didn’t like it: the drawn look on Richard’s face, the carefully controlled breathing. 

The mercenary was surprised that he kept his eyes closed—it made it easier to focus, but he wouldn’t know exactly where Slade was taking him.

“I thought the Bat taught you better.”

“I’m not watching on purpose,” Grayson said quietly. “I assume that you _don’t_ want me knowing one of your safehouses’ locations; I can’t tell anyone what I don’t know.”

It was a very Boy-Scout Grayson thing, though Slade didn’t doubt the man could get a general idea based on sound and counting turns.

After about thirty minutes, they arrived at the industrial building. Richard didn’t assess his surroundings like his training dictated; he was shutting down. Slade had seen this behavior before, in men pushed too far, and seeing it in Grayson made something nasty claw at his stomach. 

The little bird silently followed Slade up the stairs to the lofted living area in the rear of the building. Slade indicated the table and chairs near the large window that overlooked the main floor. 

“Shirt off.” The mercenary opened one of the cabinets across the room, gathering medical supplies. “IV morphine or Oxymorphone tabs?”

“Morphine.” 

Slade brought the drugs, first aid kit, and a shop light back to the table. With his sweatshirt removed, Slade could see that his chest, too, would be an ugly mess of bruising in about twenty-four hours. 

By the time the mercenary returned from washing up and getting some bottled water, Richard had plugged in the light, opened the first aid kit, and set out what he’d likely need. Slade watched as Grayson systematically tied a ligature with his teeth, filled the hypodermic, swabbed the crook of his arm, and sunk the needle home. 

Christ, it was nice to be around someone who wasn’t incompetent. He handed Grayson a bottle of water. 

“Let’s get this done.” Richard swung around to sit straddle-style, his balled-up sweatshirt cushioning his head.

With a flick of the lamp’s switch, bright light illuminated the carnage that was Grayson’s back. Slade paused for a moment, closed his eye, and took a deep, measured breath. 

He was exhausted, running on about an hour of sleep after a prolonged engagement where he’d taken serious injury. His body ached as it continued to heal. Slade knew there would be limited chance for rest in the next eight hours. There was nothing he could do to mitigate the strain these factors placed upon him. 

What Slade _could_ control were his emotions. Specifically, emotional people made mistakes, and Slade’s current condition already increased the chance of error—there was no room for mistakes where Richard was involved. It was time to put his feelings away.

As he exhaled, Slade _let go_ ; emotions were set aside: hushed peace and focus descended upon him. He opened his eye and got to work. The mercenary picked up a wad of soapy gauze with tweezers, and started washing away the grime and blood from Grayson’s back.

Except for the occasional hiss or inhale, Richard stayed silent. A few minutes later, the medication kicked in—some of the tension slid out of his muscles. Eventually, the only sounds were the hum of the light and Grayson’s shallow breathing.

“Why did he throw you into Jason’s case?”

“Kicked.” Richard’s voice was somewhat detached. “I was kicked off a platform—about a five-foot drop—into the case.”

“Kicked, then.”

“I thought it was just standard sparring to gauge my physical status. After B kicked me off, he told me that he needed me to go on a mission, remain dead. I didn’t want to; I told him ‘no’.” The water bottle crinkled in Richard’s fist. “ _I told him ‘no’_.” 

It would be easiest to get the full story while the man was drugged; Slade let Grayson talk. 

“I mean, he’s right—it was my fault. It was my fault that I got captured.” 

The veracity of that statement was questionable.

“I was just dropping Zsasz at Arkham when everything went south. It sounded like B, but it was Owlman, and he clocked me, which off-balanced me enough for Superwoman to get her lasso around my neck. I’m surprised I didn’t hang when she dragged me.”

The bird’s voice dropped to a hush again. “They didn’t even torture me; they already knew who I was. Superwoman and Ultraman just beat on me for fun.” 

A pile of pink gauze grew in the waste bin at Slade side—Richard’s blood, he noted absently. 

“How did you die?”

“What makes you think I died?”

A solar flare of anger broke through Slade’s practiced calm. Hearing Richard die was like having something torn from his chest. 

“Richard, I’m sure the Bat’s file has a profile of my abilities,” he said smoothly.

“Yes? Enhanced speed, reflexes, durability, senses, and a healing factor, if you want the CliffsNotes version.” 

“I can hear heartbeats.” The tension returned instantly. “We seem to have established a habit of not lying to each other. I would like it to continue.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Grayson exhaled. “The restraining device was also a bomb, wired to my heart; the closing door triggered its timer. Luthor had to knock Batman out—he wouldn’t listen to anyone—there was no other way.” 

“There’s value in knowing when to fight and when to surrender. Luthor fed me some kind of dissolvable sedative, then smothered me. It hit fast. I was slipping under after about thirty seconds.” 

His voice was a whisper. “I had time to make my peace. I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life; I wasn’t impaled with a sword. I had a good run. I was going to my parents, to my Robin.” 

Slade set down the tweezers and pressed his face into a hand.

“It’s been one thing after another: what B _did_ to Hood, B dying, Damian, taking up the mantle, trying to hold everything together, Tim’s passive attempt, the Joker almost killing Hood, Haly’s burning, my friends, Dami—” 

Richard choked. 

“The nights are dark and I am tired.”

Any man could be broken, Slade knew—it was his business to know such things. Richard was struggling, but the little bird had stabilized, holding steady. Now this? 

“It was almost like falling asleep. I was there one moment, and the next there was nothing.”

Nothing but the ungodly silence in Slade’s mind.

“Luthor could have snapped my neck, gone for a headshot, but he needed Batman’s cooperation. He had adrenaline on hand, and used a direct injection to restart my heart. Suddenly it felt like I had been kicked in the chest and I was back. I don’t know how long I was...gone.”

“Approximately three minutes.” 

Even with adrenaline, odds of survival were low. Even if it did revive him, chances of brain damage increased with every passing second. It was nothing short of a miracle that Richard sat here now, breathing and speaking. 

“I’m sorry.” He _would_ apologize for his own death. “I’m not doing the hero self-effacing thing. We both know the life expectancy isn’t high for what I do, but you’ve lost enough, Slade.” 

Slade didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know what tangle of emotions had taken up residence in his chest. With a violent internal effort, the mercenary _shoved_ his feelings aside; he wasn’t a fucking amateur and he was not ruled by his emotions. 

He picked up the tweezers and dipped a fresh piece of gauze in the soapy water. 

“That’s life, Grayson.”

* * *

A phone call was all it took to arrange a chartered flight at the municipal airport outside of Blüdhaven. By late morning they’d arrived at a small airport in western Massachusetts which Slade frequently used for traveling to and from his Vermont safehouse. From there, avoiding tolls and their cameras, the drive was about three and a half hours.

The narcotics had worn off about when they landed, and Grayson hadn’t taken—or asked for—anything. The man didn’t complain once. He hadn’t spoken at all; whether it was a precautionary measure or because he simply didn’t want to talk, Slade didn’t know. Either way, it was unsettling. Richard Grayson was never so silent. 

It was mid-afternoon when they reached the homestead nestled deep in the Green Mountains. The mercenary watched Grayson carefully as they pulled into the detached garage. He was alert, cognizant of his surroundings; when Slade killed the engine, Richard got out of the car, but his movements were robotic. The mercenary grabbed his cases from the trunk of the WRX and locked the garage behind them. 

The front door popped open and Rose appeared.

"Hey Dad—' _Wing_?"

"Nightwing is dead," Slade replied. "This is Richard Grayson, who is also dead.”

“Hi,” he mumbled distantly. 

There wasn’t even a hint of the smile usually reserved for loved ones, he wasn’t even _looking_ towards Rose. She stared in obvious shock, but moved aside to let them enter. 

"Billy, could you re-arm?" Slade asked as they passed Wintergreen, who was sitting at the kitchen island with tea and his tablet.

Like a wraith, Grayson followed him through a side hall and down into the basement. He dropped his gear by the armory, and led Richard to the medical area at the other end of the room. As per an earlier text, Wintergreen had already laid out most of the equipment they’d need. 

The eerie silence was starting to irk Slade. He plucked the sweatshirt’s hood. Grayson stared back at him with blank eyes. Dissociation, strong dissociation at that, and probably depersonalization too. 

“Nod if you can understand me.” Richard nodded. “You’re in medical, in the basement.” 

He heard Wintergreen come down the stairs, followed by a stealthy Rose. 

“I need to do imaging on your back to check for glass shards before I close any of the lacerations. Are you able to _safely_ give yourself morphine, or do you need me to do it?”

The first words he’d said in hours were cracked and dry. “I can do it.”

Slade placed the vial, capped hypodermic, ligature, and alcohol pad next to Grayson on the table.

"Don't be conservative; I don’t want you moving while I’m working."

As Slade unwrapped the bandaging from his torso, Rose made a quiet noise. His daughter was no shrinking violet, no stranger to gore and violence, but she was fiercely loving. Undoubtedly, Rose wanted to sit at Grayson’s side, but she was forced to step back when Slade powered on the portable imaging gun. It was a device he was intimately familiar with; his bones didn’t set themselves.

“Do you see that, there?” Billy pointed to the upper right quadrant of the current frame. It was a glass sliver. 

“Yeah.” He released the trigger on the gun and marked Grayson’s back with a felt pen. 

The worst of the lacerations were on Grayson’s upper back and shoulders—where Slade and Wintergreen found five more shards—which fit with his report of being kicked. The mercenary paused about two-thirds of the way down Richard’s back, frowning.

“These breaks are posterior.”

“I know.”

Slade’s frown deepened. The break pattern was abnormal; Grayson had been hit with something from behind. He’d get the story later, for now he needed the bird to be still. 

“Ninth rib on the right, tenth on the left; the breaks are clean and aligned.” He sighed, and put the gun on the counter. “I’m going to need to dig, you need to be sedated.”

Instantly, Richard’s knuckles went white as he gripped his thigh, sucked a shallow whistling breath. 

“I can take it. The morphine’s working.”

Slade pressed a thumb next to one of the circled areas. Grayson cried out, muscles going tense and rigid. Wintergreen glared at him.

“You need to stay relaxed and loose.”

Richard started to shake. Slade quickly walked around the table and took the little bird’s face in his hands. 

“Here and now, Grayson. It’s just Versed.”

Thankfully, Billy got with the program and carefully placed a fresh sharp and vial on the table. 

“Just Versed?”

Slade held up the vial, which was clearly labeled. Grayson swallowed and nodded.

“Okay.” He visibly tried to pull himself together. “Four milligrams should be about right.”

Slade tipped his head at Wintergreen, who filled the hypodermic and sunk it into the meat of Richard’s bicep. Slade thumbed gentle circles on Grayson’s cheekbone.

“You’re familiar with it?”

“It’s a component to most fear gas antidotes, so are low doses of haloperidol.” 

That made sense. From one of the cabinets under the table, Billy grabbed a few foamy blocks. 

“Slade?” He held out his hand. “The cuff.”

Slade turned to his daughter. “The inside pocket of my jacket, on the task chair.”

Rose returned, rolling a stool into the corner, placing the cuff in one of Grayson’s hands and taking the other in her own. He turned the bracelet over, rubbing his thumb over the pale green stone set in its center. 

“It hits pretty darn fast—the antidote—but that’s because it’s a nasal spray. It’s kinda hard to stick a needle in someone who’s panicking, or pierce our suits.”

He was babbling to keep himself calm. 

“Everyone always wanted to know how I can shake off the gas so easily; I don’t.” 

Grayson gazed at the bracelet. 

“The truth is, I’ve lived with fear since before I could form memories; I was on a trapeze before I could walk, doing double cutaways before I could run. I learned that fear is not to be feared. Instead of being frozen by fear, I learned to embrace it. The shakes, nausea, palpitations—they mean you’re _alive_.” 

“I mean, I still take the antidote, because it’s a bad time, and the gas will give you the _worst_ hangover.” Richard’s lip curled in a mighty frown. “God, Crane’s such an _asshole_.” 

“‘ _Ooh Batman I’m going to make you see your worst nightmares_ ’,” he mocked. “Joke’s on you, jagweed, I’ve been living my worst nightmares since I was twelve. My parents made impact at about thirty-eight-and-a-half miles an hour; the fall took roughly one point seven-six seconds. I don’t need drugs to remember the sound of their bodies hitting the ground. Seriously, get a _fucking_ life.” 

Profanities were rarely heard from Grayson—somehow, extrajudicial assault was acceptable, but Lord forbid Grayson utter the word ‘ _fuck_ ’. Slade had never _heard_ so many expletives out of Richard in a single breath. Likewise, Rose was shoving a fist in her mouth to stifle her laughter. The bird blinked sluggishly, just noticing that someone was holding his hand. Following the arm back to its owner, he stared at Rose. 

“ _Rosie_.” Slowly, his face lit up: grin stretching so wide it must hurt, eyes sparkling. “ _Princess_.”

“Hey ‘Wing.” She choked back a snort-laugh. “How are you feeling?”

He tipped his head sideways. “Pretty good, considering I repeatedly wished I were dead during the car ride.”

“Forthright honesty is a good look on you,” Slade said. 

“Being a decent human being is a good look on you, but if wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets, wouldn’t we?”

Mouthy little shit. The mercenary clicked his tongue. 

“Roll on your front, hips and shoulders on the blocks.”

Slade and Rose had to help Grayson position himself, his movement slow and clumsy. 

“I...I might fall asleep. I know I’m panicking about that, but I can’t _feel_ the panic. This is exactly why I hate benzos,” he griped. 

“This is exactly _why_ you are drugged. It’s fine if you fall asleep; the more you rest, the faster you’ll heal. Now, shut the fuck up while I’m working.”

“ _Yessir_ ,” Grayson slurred, somehow still managing a sassy tone.

It was an arduous process to probe the cuts. Despite being heavily drugged, Grayson whimpered when Slade pulled a quarter-inch shard from his shoulder. Once the last bloody piece sat on the metal tray, Richard mercifully slid off to sleep. 

The little bird’s heart was a slow, steady rhythm in Slade’s ears. It lulled him into a meditative space while he slid the needle in and out, pulling Richard back together one stitch at a time. Time passed in a haze, and when Slade blinked again, he realized his work was done: Grayson’s back and shoulders were bandaged, Rose had returned the stool to its corner, and Billy was in his office across from the stairs. 

After dumping the various detritus in waste bins, Slade stood and stared at Richard’s still form. Billy came up beside him. 

“Well, this is only mildly horrifying,” Wintergreen said. " _Christ_ , Slade, is that what the Syndicate did to him?"

"No. _Batman_ did this." 

Fury bubbled up in Slade, but he was quick to strangle it.

“Wilson,” he said quietly, “what the bloody hell are you doing?”

Slade opened his mouth, closed it again. He gave the only answer he could: “I don’t know.”

Billy glanced sideways at him, but Slade couldn’t tear his gaze from the battered bird asleep on the table, his mind oddly vacant. The Englishman sighed, and jerked his head. Slade followed him robotically to his office. 

Wintergreen pulled out a bottle of whiskey from under his desk, setting it down with a _clunk_. Accepting the inevitable, Slade sat, and watched amber liquor pour into glasses. 

“You said that Batman is responsible for the lad’s state?”

A generous two fingers was nudged towards the mercenary, which he accepted gratefully.

“Yeah.” Slade rested his elbow on the desk, face in hand, cradling his drink in the other. “Richard died, Billy. I _heard_ him die.”

Wintergreen’s shock was palpable. “ _Batman_ killed him?”

“Shit, _no_.” He sighed, taking another drink. “The Syndicate killed him; it’s a bit convoluted. Luthor, Catwoman, Batman, and a reject Superman clone ended up in a death trap. The only way to escape was to kill Grayson. I was in the room outside the death trap.”

“With Luthor involved, I can guess what happened.”

They were of the same mind about the wretch.

“He killed Grayson to let them escape, but then revived him to ensure Batman’s compliance. I doubt he mentioned beforehand that he could, or would, attempt to revive Richard.”

“So when you heard the lad die,” Billy said slowly, “there was only one reasonable conclusion.”

“People don’t come back from the dead.” Slade looked down into his glass. 

Billy studied him intently. “Where does Batman come into play?”

Slade pulled out the domino from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. 

“That’s why Grayson wanted to meet me in the warehouse. Wayne is using his status as presumed KIA to send him on a deep-cover mission.”

Wintergreen’s brow furrowed. “That’s not Nightwing’s area of expertise.” 

“Richard refused,” Slade said distantly. “Wayne resorted to physical persuasion. The mask has a recording of the encounter. Grayson asked that I pass the video to Red Hood and Nyx if he dies.”

Slade knew Billy was gearing up to grill him, but he capitalized upon the moment of silence to gather himself. He was _tired_.

“I can understand your anger: Wayne loses his son, then regains him, only to savagely beat the lad and cast him aside.” 

There was no small amount of censure in the Englishman’s voice. 

“I pulled you out of that Quraci hell-hole almost three decades ago, scarcely old enough to buy a pint.” Slade could feel Wintergreen’s eyes. “We’ve worked together ever since.”

“Is this going somewhere?” he asked wearily. 

“You’ve seen many comrades die...but not one has rattled you like this.”

Everything spun hazily. Slade propped both elbows on the desk, fingers digging into his scalp. It was like there was a whirlpool in his mind and he couldn’t get his bearings. 

"We’ve been...friendly for the past two months."

“ _Friendly_?”

“We’ve met up a few times, mainly at his Gotham apartment. Mostly we talk on the phone when I’m between contracts.”

“So it’s not just sex.”

He glared up at the man. “As that’s not happened— _no_ , Billy—it’s not.” Wintergreen’s eyebrows climbed. “I’m frequently out of the country, and he’s been covering _familial_ obligations. Trust me, it’s not a lack of interest.” 

Wintergreen’s breath caught. “You’ve not fallen for the lad, have you?”

Slade nearly inhaled his whiskey, hacking a cough. “Lord Jesus Christ, _no_.”

“You know this association can only end poorly.”

He gave Billy a scathing look. “No shit.”

The Englishman’s tone was gentler, tinged with concern, when he asked again: “Slade, what are you doing?”

_Don’t live with regrets_. 

“I’m living on my own terms.”

The man was silent for a moment before he decided there was nothing to be gained by pressing the issue.

“What’s your plan?”

“Broken ribs take four to six weeks to heal; I told Richard he could stay here in the interim.”

Billy eyed the mask on the desk. “Grayson must trusty you deeply, to hand over one of his masks—you could ask Isherwood to reverse engineer it.”

More like Richard had no options and it was a calculated risk. 

“I’m going to ask Ish if there’s a way to hack into their com channels, and I want that footage.” 

He sipped the whiskey, feeling the smooth-burn slide down his throat. 

“It was far, far closer than anything I find acceptable. It’s chance that we’re not ruled by psychotic despots.”

“Wilson, go talk to your daughter,” Wintergreen said with a sigh, “and then sleep for a few hours.”

An order, a simple plan of action, Slade could manage despite the maelstrom in his head. He drained his glass, and climbed stiffly to his feet. In the living room, Rose sat upon the couch. Slade crouched in front of her. 

"Hey."

She threw her arms around his neck. Slade let himself hold her, drawing his precious flower close. 

"I'm glad you're home," she whispered into the side of his head.

He stroked her long, silver hair—just like her mother’s, which had fallen in silken shades of midnight to the middle of Lil’s back. 

"No issues?"

"We've been fine. Joey left once you sent the all-clear."

Slade would have very much liked to see his son, but he was a young man with a business and responsibilities. The mercenary pulled back, trying to memorize every inch of his daughter's face. 

"Will you be staying?" 

She nodded. "Yah, just for a few days." 

Likely, she wished to spend time with Richard, whom she hadn’t seen in years. It would be...nice for Rose to stay. Yes, nice. She looked at Slade with big blue eyes and bit her lip: an old nervous habit. 

“Dad, is ‘Wing going to be okay?”

There was yet to be a challenge that Grayson _hadn’t_ risen to meet, but Slade didn’t know how fractured this would leave the bird.

“He’s strong, Rose—you know that.” She sighed and nodded. "You can’t tell _anyone_ that he is alive, or even hint that you know anything. Do you understand?" 

“‘Course.”

She hugged him again before Slade rose to his feet. Billy was probably right, as usual—a shower and an hour or two of shut-eye wouldn’t be the worst.

* * *

**Content Warning:**

This chapter contains a realistic* aftermath of Dick’s fight with Bruce, which occurs in _Nightwing_ (2011) #30.

Nothing is gory or gratuitous, but the level of medical trauma may be troubling for some readers.

  * During the fight, Bruce kicks Dick into a display case. Given the break pattern of the glass, it was not “safety glass” (the kind used in windshields) or even “tempered glass” (which breaks into fairly uniform granular chunks). The case was made of plate glass, which shatters into dangerous, jagged shards. His back would have been an absolutely bloody mess, though it is **not** described in detail. His wounds would also need to be irrigated, which is **not** mentioned. 
  * Dick self-administers IV morphine. 
  * Slade intentionally pushes himself into a state of depersonalization, i.e. detaching himself from his emotions as a coping mechanism. Towards the end of the chapter, the consequences of that start to catch up with him.
  * Generally, there’s a lot of questionable medical practices in this chapter. 



*realistically, Dick would have absolutely gotten a concussion. He would have likely broken his nose and lost a few teeth as well. I did not include any of those in this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost
> 
> Mouthy little shit ( _ ~~unwittingly~~ affectionate_)
> 
> Taipei Death Match— A ludicrous sort of wrestling event where the competitors wrap their fists, then dip their knuckles in glue and crushed glass. It has absolutely nothing to do with Taipei, and was created in America for tv sensationalism. 
> 
> KIA— “killed in action”
> 
> Fun Facts!
> 
> A “cracked rib” and a “broken/fractured rib” are the same exact thing. A “hairline fracture” is a fine break caused by stress over time. 
> 
> Generally speaking, you should _not_ use hydrogen peroxide, iodine, or alcohol to clean a wound; soap and water are sufficient. Using the former will further inflame and aggravate injured tissue (resulting in slower healing), and also increase the chances of scarring. [[Sauce]](https://www.merckmanuals.com/home/injuries-and-poisoning/first-aid/wounds)
> 
> If you’re familiar with _Forever Evil_ , you’ll notice that Dick died in a slightly different manner—SIE!Luthor used a sedative, not a “cardioplegic agent”. In all my research, I could find no pill that would do what Luthor described, only a solution that is used in delicate surgery. 
> 
>   * A sedative is a drug that is used to relieve anxiety.
>   * A hypnotic is a drug used to initiate or sustain sleep.
>   * A general anesthetic is a drug used to induce a reversible loss of consciousness. 
> 

> 
> There is often overlap; many benzodiazepines are sedative-hypnotics. (This is the family of drugs which includes Xanax, Valium, and “roofies”.) 
> 
> Therefore, I decided to say that he used a dissolvable, fast-acting “sedative”. 
> 
>   1. It makes a hell of a lot more sense that Luthor might be carrying knock-out pills. 
>   2. Nearly all sedatives are known to slow heart rate and depress breathing. 
>   3. Consider Luthor’s goal: he needs to stop Dick’s heart. This would slow Dick’s heart and depress his breathing, make him relaxed and therefore not panic/struggle, and (if the dose is high enough) make Dick fall asleep. In a drugged sleep, Dick wouldn’t wake, even when being suffocated.
> 

> 
> Epinephrine (adrenaline) is actually a treatment for asystole! (flatline) However, even in a hospital setting, success rates are low. It’s also not delivered _Pulp Fiction_ -style.
> 
> Slade is proud of Joey— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #25  
> Wintergreen rescuing Slade— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #1  
> “Trapeze before I could walk…”— _Nightwing_ (2016) #54  
> Fear gas gives you hangovers— _Robin_ (1993) #180  
> David Isherwood is (was) Slade’s tech guy— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #6  
> Dick and Bruce’s fight— _Nightwing_ (2011) #30
>
>> Nothing indicates that Dick was kicked into Jason’s case, we only see that it held a Robin uniform. Read with caution!
> 
> Slade has a safehouse in Vermont— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #1, 17, _Teen Titans: The Lazarus Contract Special_ (2017)
>
>> This was supposed to be Wintergreen’s “retirement home”. When Slade clips back in time to save Grant, this is where he takes his son. 
>> 
>> I always figured this was more than a normal safehouse. For starters, the countryside of VT, (which is almost all of VT), is very remote; it’s a good place to hide. New England has a delightful culture that is both communal and “mind ya own damn business”. Also, I headcanon that Slade likes the mountains and wilderness, and the Green Mountains remind him of the Appalachian Mountains of his youth. I made scale floor plans, which I’ll include in the next chapter’s notes.
> 
>   
> 


	8. Family and Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Diamonds are forever, like family and loyalty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _Content Warning:_ [Click Here]  
> **   
> 

### August 1st | 6p

It was evening when Dick woke from his nap. Rudely.

Just about every inch of his body hurt and every breath felt like getting stabbed. He vaguely remembered Slade offering him morphine again, but everything past that was a blur. In fact, everything from Blüdhaven onwards was hazy and distant.

He was in a basement, seemingly alone, and it was dark; the only light shone under a door on the far left. Gingerly, Dick eased himself down from the table, and pieced together his fuzzy memories to find his way back upstairs. With a clear to actually process his surroundings, it felt like he’d stumbled into an interior design magazine.

“ _Wow_ , this place is beautiful.”

The main room was more of a great room, with a high, vaulted ceiling. It led directly into a respectable kitchen, where a computer sat on the granite-topped island. Aside from the stainless steel appliances, it was artfully rustic.

“I’m used to safehouses being slightly different.”

Wintergreen chuckled, grinning slyly. “He told you this was a safehouse?”

Slade walked in from the short hallway Dick had just exited. “It is a house, and it is safe.”

Dick rolled his eyes. That was a Slade Wilson truth if he’d ever heard one. The man unfurled on the large sectional that took up most of the living room, and set to some business involving a tablet and laptop.

“Come now Grayson, let’s get some food in you.” Randy slid a plate of toast with strawberry preserves and a glass of ginger ale across the island. “If that sits fine, we’ll see about real food.”

It jarred Dick out of his stupor. Now that he noticed, he _was_ quite hungry, yet he was also queasy. It really should be a crime to be simultaneously nauseous and hungry.

“Thank you, Wintergreen.”

Despite warring messages from his body, the toast was ambrosia after protein bars and supplement drinks; he hadn’t had a meal in at least three days. Dick remembered Wintergreen to be a decent cook, and by god, he’d keep down the toast if it meant he got a hot meal.

He chewed slowly, not only because his jaw ached, but to savor every bite of the food. The preserves must have been local. Oddly, the thought of Slade buying local didn’t surprise Dick. The mercenary appreciated genuine, hard work and quality. He was pulled from staring at the crumbs on his plate and musing about agriculture by a very dear voice.

“’Wing, what the fucking hell did you do to yourself?”

Crouched upon the railing of the loft which overlooked the main room was one Rose Wilson, a mischievous light in her eyes. Dick couldn’t help it, he laughed, even if it made his chest hurt.

“Never change, Rose. It’s nice to see you too. How’s Minneapolis?”

She grinned, and bounced from railing to bannister, before landing with a soft _thump_ next to the island.

“Not exciting. I graduated high school in May. I chase after my million nieces and nephews, instill violence in the local youth, and remind gangs to stay the fuck out of the neighborhood.”

He cooed obnoxiously, reaching out to fluff her hair. “Aww, that’s my girl.”

“Ugh,” she batted at Dick’s hand, “I can’t believe I ever thought you were nice or cool.” Rose pulled out the chair next to his, and looked at him intently. “Enough about me, what happened out there? All I know is that it was near the goddamn end-of-days.”

The last time Dick saw her, she’d been almost thirteen, in overalls, and her head just came up to his shoulders. Now she was a vibrant young woman, practically oozing life. Rose looked happy and healthy, which was a wash of comfort: a warm light in his heart.

“Well”, he sipped the ginger ale, “it’s…complicated.” Randy handed him an ice pack from the freezer, and he carefully pinned it between his back and the stool, hissing at the cold. “How familiar are you with the Multiverse theorem?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Um.” Shit. How did he explain this? “Do you have a pen?”

“Just a sec.”

Rose bounded upstairs and into a room, returning with one of her sketchbooks and a stubby pencil. Opening it to a clean page, she pushed them towards Dick. He drew two concentric circles, then drew eight lines from the outermost circle, not unlike a compass. Each ray received a label: Dream, Heaven, New Genesis, Skyland, Nightmare, Hell, Apokolips, and Underworld (Phantom Zone).

“Hell? You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope,” he said, popping the “ _p_ ”. “I really wish I was. The overlord of Apokolips, Darkseid, tried to invade Earth last year. It was,” Dick grimaced, “very messy.”

Brushing the thought aside, he continued, tapping the first circle with the pencil.

“So, the inner ring is the Speed Force Wall. Speedsters tap into its power. Inside that ring are an unknown number of Earths, essentially alternate realities.”

He drew tiny circles inside the ring.

“A couple days ago, our Earth was attacked by a group from _another_ Earth, except their planet is like a dark funhouse mirror: instead of a Justice League, they had a Crime Syndicate. Evil Superman blocked the sun, and the rest of their pals busted criminals out of prison to try and conscript them for their new world order.”

Dick doodled a mean-looking Clark—not that Clark would ever be mean. Clark was the best.

“They pulled down the Watchtower and claimed to have killed the entire Justice League, but that was a lie; they just trapped the League, and they didn’t get Batman. **_I_** ,” Dick said indignantly, “was minding my own business and dropping Zsasz back at Arkham.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Slade snorted from the couch.

“I know, _right_? The one time I’m trying to keep my mouth shut and head down, I get snatched by Evil Wonder Woman and Evil Batman, then unmasked on live television. It’s a sign that I should meddle.”

“I don’t think that’s the moral of the story.”

“As if you’re an expert on morality.” Dick waved dismissively. “At least I wasn’t really conscious for a lot of it; I had a pretty bad concussion. If they wanted me coherent for the reveal, they shouldn’t have kicked me in the head. Repeatedly,” he griped.

“ _Anyways_. Evil Batman healed me with some crazy Watchtower tech and gave me the whole ‘come to the dark side’ speech. But because they’re all evil, there was some wild _Game of Thrones_ -style political intrigue.”

Mean Clark now stood atop a poorly-drawn Iron Throne.

“Batman and _Lex Luthor_ ended up working together to oust them. I got shut in a death trap, Lex Luthor sort of killed me—”

A growl rose from the couch. “We’ve already had this discussion today, _Richard_.”

“Yes, _Dear_.” Dick sighed. “Luthor murdered me to bypass the deathtrap, then resuscitated me.”

Rose’s face looked like she’d licked something sour. “So he _is_ as much of a douchebag as he seems to be.”

“He is. He’s…,” there had to be a right word for Lex’s brand of filth, “… _slimy_. But not in the way Ra’s is slimy!” Dick clarified. It was _important_.

“I should have broken that crusty old lecher’s teeth when I had the chance.” Dick did _not_ like how Ra’s looked at Tim. “If he ever lays a finger on Nyx, I’ll break every bone in his body and leave him in the middle of the Quraci desert.”

Wintergreen choked on his tea.

“That...seems worse than killing him,” Rose said.

Dick turned to Rose, and placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to convey the gravity of his statement.

“Killing Ra’s is like killing a cockroach: there’s no point because he’ll always come back—it’s more effective to make his current life a living hell.”

Satisfied that he’d imparted a valuable lesson, Dick returned to doodling.

“And that is the story of our most recently averted Armageddon,” he said with finality.

Dick drained the rest of the ginger ale, then pressed the cool glass to his forehead. It felt delicious. His _bones_ felt nice. Dick didn’t feel the crushing weight on his chest that had nothing to do with his ribs. God, it was such a relief. He felt… _good_. Why did he feel so good? He stared at his plate intently, then his eyes darted around the kitchen. It took him about thirty seconds.

“The preserves. What the hell is this, Randy?”

“Are you in pain?” he asked mildly.

“No,” Dick admitted hesitantly. “I know fentanyl, morphine, and hydrocodone. This is an upper.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, staring out the window above the sink. “Ah. Oxy, or a derivative.”

Dick hopped up, stepping over to the counter where a cutting board sat with an onion.

“Well, the come-down is going to blow. Diced or minced, Wintergreen?”

“You literally just admitted to being high off your face, and you want to use a knife?” Slade asked, not looking up from his work.

“I cut my teeth in _Gotham_.” Dick gestured with said knife. “Being able to fight through a face full of fear gas is practically a prerequisite for wearing a cape in the city. Mental impairment from painkillers is like the nice version of that.”

“Have you considered _not_ fighting?”

Dick snapped his head around. “Dunno, have you?”

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get mouthier.”

He scoffed. “I know you’re smarter than that.”

Rose laughed, snorting slightly. “I don’t know what’s funnier, the two of you, or the idea of Batman holding the vigilante equivalent of a driving test.”

Dick _wheezed_ at the mental image of Bruce, in full uniform, sitting in the passenger seat of a beat-up sedan, clipboard clutched in his fist, looming over some poor sixteen-year-old.

“ _Rose_.” He leaned over the counter, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “Oh my god.”

She growled. “You were .25 inches too far away from the curb when parallel parking.”

He hadn’t used his Batman voice in a while, but…

“ _Do it better. Failure is death_.”

Everyone in the room twitched. Yup. He still had it. Dick dabbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and continued mincing the onion, then paused. This was the first time he could think of Damian without aching. It was bittersweet.

“I didn’t know which was going to go first, my sanity or my vocal cords,” he said wistfully.

“Fairly certain your sanity was already long gone,” Slade muttered. Dick ignored him.

“’Wing, never do that again, because it’s mad creepy.”

“I’ll only do it to mess with you,” he said sweetly.

She sighed with all the drama of a teenager. “Suddenly I’m twelve.”

Slade called it “training”, but Dick had really been tutoring Rose to catch her up to the American school system and helping her acclimate—he knew a thing or two about culture shock. The time he spent living with Wintergreen and Rose had been a good twelve months. He’d needed it badly: a bit of normalcy, the chance to do something unquestionably _good_ , to reconnect with what it was all about.

Dick smiled, slow and fondly. “C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

Rose stuck out her tongue. “It’s weird to see you without a mask.”

He already missed it, yet the pain of its loss felt distant.

“Well, it’s weird that you’re so tall, but it’s nice to be able to tell you my name.” He stuck his hand out and grinned. “Dick Grayson, pleasure to meet you.”

She laughed but shook his hand. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re as corny as a Lifetime Original Movie?”

Slade barked out a laugh.

“She’s _absolutely_ your daughter.”

“Of course she is.”

Rose looked floored, but in a good way.

“His comparison was to a Hallmark card,” Dick explained, “and it’s ‘Dick’, not ‘Richard’. Your dad likes to call me that because he’s a contrary bastard.”

“ _My_ Dad?” She feigned shock. “A contrary bastard?”

Dick nodded seriously. “It’s more likely than you think.”

After a beat, the two broke down snickering. Randy chuckled too, slipping a bell pepper onto the cutting board. Dick twirled the chef’s knife in his hand. He’d learned how to chop vegetables long before he’d met Alfred, but Alfie was the one who taught him how to do it with _finesse_. He smiled, sinking into the simple joy of a mundane activity done well.

“ _So_...I’m like, really happy to see you, but how’d you end up here?”

“Since I’m dead,” he raised one hand in air quotes, “B sent me on an undercover assignment. Your dad was kind enough to patch me up and let me hide here, since I’m on the lam. I’ll be off as soon as I’m able.”

“ _Maybe_ if he didn’t beat the shit out of his son, you could have started straight away,” Slade said mildly.

Dick slapped his blade onto the counter. “My _father_ was John Giovanni Grayson, may his soul rest in peace. The Robins might be my brothers, but I am _not_ a Wayne and B is _not_ my father. I will _thank_ you to not refer to him as such.”

Slade finally looked up from his work. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or disturbed that you can be this agitated while high on a considerable amount of Oxy.”

The mercenary’s temperate response doused some of Dick’s anger. “As long as you’re not surprised.”

“Oh, not remotely.”

* * *

All was right in Slade Wilson’s world: his daughter and Wintergreen were within his sight, Richard’s wounds were tended, and they were ensconced in what was probably his safest, most secret, and best-provisioned property. The mercenary felt like a new man; while not yet at full capacity, a green smoothie and a few hour’s sleep made volumes of difference. Exhaustion and chaos, which dogged his steps from Rhode Island, had evaporated like morning dew.

A quinoa and chicken stir fry now hissed on the stove as Slade reviewed intel about the recent invasion, but his attention kept drifting from the reports to the bright sounds of Rose and Richard’s laughter.

He knew Richard wasn’t in good shape, but drugs had the little bird at his normal, bouncy self. Slade hadn’t seen him this buoyant—smile not tinged with weariness—since the last months with Rose, or perhaps when he was Robin. Such people usually drove him insane, but Slade found that he enjoyed Grayson’s light: it was genuine.

Rose slapped at Richard’s hands. “I don’t think so. I’ll open the wine, you set out the placemats.”

“Princess, it’s fine, really,” he insisted.

She squinted at him. “Did you, or did you not, fucking _die_ in the past forty-eight hours? Do you _not_ have two freshly-broken ribs and a back full of stitches?”

“Yes?” Richard blinked. “What does that have to do with me not helping to set the table?”

“Oh my fucking _god_.” She plucked the bottle away and pushed a stack of placemats towards the bird, then firmly pointed towards the dining area. “ _Yip Yip_.”

He and Billy ate at the island bar, but with four people, they actually had to use the dining room table for its intended function. It was rare that there were more than two people at this safehouse at any given time, nevermind the six that the table could seat.

Grayson obediently set out the mats and returned for the two glasses of white, placing them at the settings along the right side of the table. Rose tipped her head and looked at Richard.

"How did you know that was dad's seat?"

"It's the most strategically advantageous: back to the wall, a view of the doors and windows, and nothing impeding movement." He kissed her on the side of the head. "Randy is to his right, of course."

Smart little bird. Slade stretched, closing his laptop and setting it on the end table, and padded into the kitchen. Richard was contemplating an open cabinet, trying to determine how to get a glass down without pulling anything. Slade stepped up behind him, and reached over Grayson’s head to retrieve one.

“Thanks.”

The living warmth from Richard’s body, so close to Slade’s chest, was enough to make Slade linger and savor the feeling. The little bird turned enough to squint up at him.

“Why is everything here so damn tall?”

It took him by surprise, Grayson’s uncharacteristic crassness, and Slade chuckled in amusement.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, everything is exactly the right height.”

“You _impossible_ man.”

Grayson shoved at his chest lightly, and Slade stepped back with another rumbling chuckle, placing a kiss on the crown of Richard’s head. His hair was oily, but that only intensified the intoxicating scent of vanilla and musk. The mercenary wanted to taste, to hold, but he would have to wait.

Once Grayson had filled his glass with water, Slade guided him to the table with a gentle hand on his hip. Rose was already seated across from Slade’s place, leaving the head of the table open so Richard could sit between them. Without ceremony, they tucked into the steaming bowls.

Richard flipped the spoon upside down, savoring a bite with a happy noise. “This is lovely, Randy.”

It _was_ good, Billy’s cooking was almost always good, but teasing the little bird was as natural as breathing.

“You’re high, of course it tastes good.”

"Oh, hush." He swatted clumsily at Slade. "Don’t insult Randy’s cooking—and I'm on painkillers, not stoned."

Rose crunched a pepper and looked at Grayson skeptically. "As if you know what that's like."

The drugs slowed Richard’s reaction time, so he couldn’t quite mask his reaction. Rose grinned ferally.

"Oh my god, _you do_."

"There's no salacious story.” Grayson waved his spoon. “Some of Black Mask's people decided to torch a warehouse of weed—destroy the evidence. My nasal filters were faulty."

An admittedly comical image; the little bird would probably be handsy, tactile—more than he already was. Slade didn’t find it such an objectionable situation.

“God forbid you smoke a joint and chill for two seconds,” she muttered under her breath. When Richard made a questioning noise, Rose asked, “how faulty? Are we talking ‘giggling’ stoned or ‘I can’t move’ stoned?”

The bird chewed his bite slowly before looking Rose dead in the face.

"There were about two hundred and sixty kilos in that warehouse; I was higher than a kite. It was, admittedly, very hard to _not_ giggle while kicking Mask’s henches in the face." Richard grinned at the thought. “They were some next-level dumb _before_ they got intoxicated.”

If Grayson was pulling out his flashy, impractical kicks, they probably were; the bird knew to keep his damn feet planted while fighting someone of Slade’s caliber.

“He normally says stupid shit when he’s fighting, and is annoyingly perky, so I’m sure no one could tell the difference.”

Grayson chased another spoonful of stir fry with a sip of water before lazily rolling his head to look at Slade.

“Okay, _first of all_ , ‘saying stupid shit’ is a viable and effective tactic. _Second_ , you’re just eternally grumpy—which sounds like a personal problem.”

Slade rolled his eye and sipped at the glass of crisp, cold white. “A viable and effective tactic at being effing _annoying_.”

“Exactly.” Richard smiled beatifically. “Angry and frustrated people make mistakes. I do it to annoy you, even though I know it won’t work.”

“You are an _actual_ menace,” Slade said, but fondness tinted his voice.

Richard smiled back softly. It was almost habit to nudge the bird into a little game of chess.

"Nobody’s heard from Black Mask in over a year."

Richard bit his lip. "I’m sure you could contact him, if you had an Ouija board."

There were rumors, of course, but deceased was apparently a relative term in Gotham.

"He’s confirmed dead?"

“Rose, I was joking; never mess around with Ouija boards,” Grayson said seriously, before turning back to Slade. "When Red Hood kills you, he makes sure you _stay_ dead."

A poorly-suppressed giggle slipped out of Richard’s mouth. Rose raised an eyebrow in question, but Slade didn't know what was so funny.

"Hood shot an RPG into Mask's office while he was having a meeting. Then, he dragged Mask's corpse to the roof, doused it in fuel, and burned it."

That was... _violent_. Fitting with what Slade knew of Red Hood, but nothing Nightwing or Richard would _ever_ laugh about—not that Slade was objecting to a rare show of practical sense.

"Careful there, Little Bird,” he tutted. “You're sounding heretical."

" _Tragic_." Grayson rolled his eyes. "I don’t agree with Hood’s actions, and we had words about it, but Mask was an actual sadist and I’m not about to lose sleep over him kicking the bucket.”

“You scolded _The Red Hood_?” Rose asked in disbelief.

“It wasn’t _scolding_.” Richard sighed. “It was more like: ‘ _Hood, you killed Black Mask. That’s not okay’_.”

“And he said, _‘shove your sanctimonious bullshit where the sun don’t shine, Goldie. Mask was a fuckin’ animal so I put him down like an animal. It was practically a public fucking service, goddamn. You know what? Go fuck yourself I don’t need to listen to—_ ”

Slade wheezed.  
  
“So, I said: ‘ _You’re not **wrong** , but I’m Batman, and I can’t have you killing in Gotham. Let’s find a way to make this work’,_” Richard concluded succinctly. “So we negotiated a formal treaty and now we’re best friends and he’s family.”

Relations between the Hoods and Bats _had_ been peaceable in the last year.

“What kind of treaty?” Slade prodded.

Richard rested his elbows on the table, chin in his palms, grinning slyly.

"One that forbids things like shooting people with RPGs. Nice try, Scary Man."

A deep chuckle rolled from Slade’s chest. It was always fun to play with such a clever creature.

“Is it still active?”

"That's the beauty of it all." Richard’s grin turned sharp. "The treaty was made between _Batman_ and Red Hood. B has to observe it—he wasn't pleased."

Slade rested his left hand in Richard's right where it lay on the table. This felt like a natural continuation from watching the sun rise over Gotham. It was in that comfortable, companionable silence that they worked their way through dinner.

The setting sun played on the gemstones inset in Grayson’s cuff. The glittering caught Rose’s eye, and she idly traced the birds engraved into the silver surface. Richard made a noise, and slipped the cuff from his wrist, handing it to Rose. She studied it, tilting the red eye into the light.

“Is this garnet?”

“No, it’s diamond.”

 _Jesus Christ_. Red diamonds were possibly the rarest precious gems in the world, and the one set into the cuff was about a carat; such stones could run at a half-million. Rose squinted at Richard.

“What is the yellow one?”

“That’s dad,” he said, finishing the final bite of fry.

She blinked. “What?”

“It’s dad.” Grayson pushed his empty bowl away, and tilted the cuff so that Rose was looking at the inside of the band. “See?”

Admittedly, Slade hadn’t inspected the bracelet closely; he didn’t dare take it out where it might be seen, which was apparently a wise choice. Richard could have _told_ Slade he was carrying a small fortune in diamonds.

“John Giovanni Grayson, 1968-2007, Marie Ja—” Rose stumbled over the word.

“Jagori, the ‘J’ makes a ‘Y’ sound: _ya_ gori.” The word rolled off his tongue.

“Marie Jagori Lloyd, 1970-2007. Foster the flame.” Rose looked at Richard in confusion.

He raised an eyebrow. “Diamonds are made of _what_?”

“Carbon, when exposed to intense heat and pressure…” she trailed off, gazing back down at the cuff with new reverence. “Human ashes contain carbon.”

Richard had literally entrusted Slade with his _parents_. He stared at the little bird’s face, washed in a warm glow from the fading light. In comparison to the weight of this item, Nightwing’s domino felt trivial.

“The yellow one is dad, the red one is daj, and the pale green one is both of them. I had the stones set a few years ago.”

“I thought your mother’s name was Mary.”

Billy glared at Slade. It was _completely_ fair to ask Richard questions.

“It was, she changed it when she moved to the US to be with dad. Marie and Mary were…” his mouth moved, brow furrowed in confusion, clearly grasping for words, “outside? Her outside names?”

Rose put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay ‘Wing, you can say ‘white people name’. My Hmong name is Xiá.”

His face lit. “ _Bizo_! They were her white names.”

“Huh.” She studied him in a new light. “I’ll admit, I couldn’t tell the difference between shades of white when I first came here.”

“I’m white- _passing_ ,” Richard said with disdain, “pale enough that people usually see ‘fashionably tan’, but brown enough to get called slurs and selected for ‘random’ security inspections.”

It was true, but not something Slade had ever really consciously registered; it wasn’t necessary information needed to fight. Richard’s skin was golden-olive. His father’s second name, Giovanni—which Richard pronounced with a “Y” and not the hard American “G”—likely pointed to Italian heritage.

“If I go anywhere in the southwest, people assume I’m Mexican— _only_ Mexican—and speak to me in Spanish.”

Rose snorted. “People think I’m Chinese.”

“I’m sure you say very complimentary things about them in Hmong.”

“Why, Richard,” she gave an affronted gasp, “I _never_.”

“Does anyone actually buy that ‘sweet innocence’ act?” Grayson asked, pushing away from the table.

“Many people, and frequently.” Rose smiled at him and batted her eyelashes. “It’s a cold fucking world, gotta work with what you’ve got.”

Such a sensible girl, his daughter, Slade thought with warm approval.

The bird shook his head. “The bathroom is left, left down the stairs, then directly to my left, yeah?”

“The one in the loft is closer—middle door.” As he walked towards the staircase, Rose called out a question. “If Dick is your white name, what was your mother’s name for you?”

He looked over his shoulder with a small smile. “Robin.”

* * *

  
Richard casually slid upstairs, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell in the middle of dinner. Robin was his _name_? The gears in Slade’s head spun as he attempted to factor that new information.

"Oh my god, _Dad_."

Slade turned to look at his daughter, who was grinning like a maniac and practically vibrating in her seat. He raised an eyebrow.

"How long?"

"How long _what_?" He frowned.

"You and 'Wing,” Rose said with a conspiratorial air.

"What about Richard and I? Make sense, Rose."

"How long have you been together?" she asked, as if it were obvious.

 _Together_? "Together doing what? We're friendly, outside of business dealings."

"Oh yeah," she snorted, crossing her arms, "we're just ‘dudes being bros’. We flirt and call each other pet names and _hold hands at the dinner table_."

Slade looked down at his left hand that lay palm-up on the table, where moments ago, Richard had rested his right.

“It’s nothing.”

“It sure doesn’t look like nothing; he looks at you like you hung the moon and stars.”

“Bat or not, he’s on thirty of Oxy, to which he has no tolerance,” Slade said flatly.

“Exactly,” Rose shot back. “He’s _choosing_ to not resist—he’s a Bat; he could easily fight the effects.” She sighed in exasperation. “Dad, I love you, but you’re an ice-hearted bastard, yet you are _sweet_ on him.”

What the Hell?

“Oh.” His daughter looked at him with something close to pity on her face. “You can’t see it, can you?”

“There’s nothing _to_ see.”

The upstairs door opened and she bluntly redirected the conversation.

“We have our arbiter back!” Rose grinned wickedly. “How do you feel about losing at Scrabble, Wintergreen?”

“I believe we are tied, Young Lady.”

They’d quickly learned that his daughter had the ‘Wilson competitive streak’ something fierce. What Richard had introduced as a fun game to build vocabulary and spelling skills fast became bloodsport. Since Wintergreen was partial to Scrabble, Grayson was all too happy to let him have the dubious honor of being Rose’s opponent, and took up the role of referee.

“Randy, I’m so sorry I taught her to play,” Richard said from the stairs.

Billy chuckled. “It keeps me sharp in my dotage.”

Slade rolled his eye at the Brit’s remark and got to his feet. “ _After_ the dishes,” he said, gently yanking Rose’s ponytail as he walked to the sink.

* * *

Once everything was washed, dried, and stored, they retired to the living room. It was somehow fitting that Slade’s home didn’t have a television, even one without cable. In its place was a square table with two chairs, where Wintergreen and Rose sat playing their animated game of Scrabble.

Slade lit a cigar, and sat reading on the sectional. Dick pulled a book in German off the built-in shelf—he’d need to brush up for his impending fight with the Fist of Cain. World War Two-era military tactics weren't exactly his first choice, but they weren’t the dullest topic either.

Laying on his stomach was about the only comfortable position, so he flopped down with his book. Dick rubbed his cheek into the soft, textured surface of the cushion. He’d thought Slade would have a leather couch, but the microfiber-esq fabric was far more pleasant. When he could eventually tear his attention from the upholstery, he opened the book to the introduction. 

A short time later, he was pulled from an argument about machine guns and the obsolescence of traditional cavalry by Rose.

“‘Wing, is ‘sat nav’ an accepted word?”

“Nein. Es gibt eine plast zwischen Sat und Nav.”

“He said no, there’s a space between the words,” Slade said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

Cigars usually smelled foul, but this smelled sweet and delicious, mixing wonderfully with the fresh air drifting through the screen porch door. Humidity made daytime warmth cling after the sun went down, battening the comfortable haze in Dick’s mind like soft cotton.

“Was für eine zigarre ist das?”

“The cores are cherry pipe tobacco. I roll them myself.”

Slade absentmindedly ran his fingers through Dick’s hair, gently scratching his scalp. Dick sighed happily.

The mercenary clicked his tongue. “You’re just an over-large Golden Retriever.”

Dick’s eyes fluttered open and found one icy blue looking down at him in amusement.

“Slade, you and I wear the trappings of polite society, but we’re about as civilized as rabid wolves.”

The hand in his hair paused. Dick headbutted it gently until it re-started its ministrations, and happily returned to reading. 

He floated in that sweet-smelling, warm haze, luxuriating in soft touches until, part way through an analysis of the use of tanks during the first battle of Cambrai, a heavy feeling began sinking in his stomach. He couldn’t help but think that Damian would have liked the book, as the only person in the family with genuine interest in military history and strategy. Undoubtedly, Dami would have _opinions_ on the author’s ideas, and wouldn’t hesitate to share. Dick smiled at the thought of Damian’s impassioned rant, but smiling only made him feel sick.

Rose laughed, and Dick turned to watch her and Randy bicker good-naturedly, then glanced at Slade lounging on the couch. The _heavy_ feeling became something oozing, black and rotten. This scene was of a _family_. They’d cooked a meal and eaten together, and now were enjoying a quiet evening in each other’s company. The world had almost ended yesterday, but there were all here together now, as it should be. There were no secrets, plots, or schemes. There were no lies.

He’d talked a great deal in the past few hours, and his body was making it known, but even the rising crescendo of pain wasn’t enough to drown out his emotions. Dick knew a losing battle when he saw one, and his control over his composure deteriorated by the second.

As quickly as he could—without attracting attention—Dick returned the book to the shelf, kissed Rose on the head, nodded to Randy. Unsure of what would be acceptable with Slade, he settled on a shoulder squeeze and a smile.

Pulling the basement door behind him, Dick let his mask slip with each step. By the time he reached the bottom, tears slid down his face and shoulders shook. He lowered himself down to sit on the last stair. Existing was nothing short of pure agony.

His ribs _screamed_ in pain, causing him to suck shallow, rapid breaths. Dick pressed his face into the wall. He felt like he was fourteen again, lying in bed after Two-Face’s baseball bat, and watching the tiny, frail new world he’d built fall to pieces around him. He thought he’d found a new family, and in it, his place at B’s side. Then Bruce fired him, and what was he without Robin? Dick _was_ Robin.

Footsteps fell heavily on the stairs behind him.

“Slade—”

He was gently lifted, and Dick found himself straddling the mercenary's lap. He immediately pressed his face into Slade’s shirt, breathed in the scent of cherry tobacco.

“Richard,” Slade purred, his voice like thick velvet. “Richard, you are going to hyperventilate.”

Dick wanted to smother himself in that voice, fill his lungs with it until he couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he heaved. “I know this is a crash from the painkillers. I can do better.”

“You are only human, Richard.” Slade gently ran a hand over his hair. “ _To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to kill and a time to heal; A time to break down and a time to build up. A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and a time to dance_.”

‘Only human’ didn’t feel like an insult or criticism coming from Slade’s mouth: it felt like a benediction.

“Was it all a lie?” he whispered raggedly.

For the first time in months, Dick had _hope_. Everyone made it to the other side of the battle, Bruce was more open than he’d been since Dick’s early days in the Manor. Maybe they were finally starting to heal _together_. Sure, Nightwing’s identity was blown, but as long as he had his family, Dick could do anything.

“In the end, does it matter?” Slade asked.

In the end, actions spoke louder than words—and Bruce’s actions could fill volumes. Dick had built a family with Dami and Jay and Babs and Alfie, but where Bruce was involved, there was no family. Bruce, who desperately tried to save him. Bruce, who had hugged him—in front of Lex Luthor, no less. Bruce, who had helped Dick limp from the Watchtower. In the end, _Bruce_ was the one who forced him into this situation. _He’d said ‘no’_.

Dick’s hands fisted in the front of Slade’s shirt.

“No one left behind, no one forgotten—but there won’t be forgiveness for this.” He huffed bitterly.

Family was _forever_. Dick counted them family, but apparently not the inverse.

“POW-MIA?”

Dick made a tiny laugh. “ _Lilo & Stitch_.”

The noise from Slade could only be described as good-natured exasperation.

“It’s my honor to try and my duty to love,” he whispered, “but why bring me back? Why bring me back to _this_?”

This was worse than death. Suddenly, his face was forcibly cupped in the mercenary’s broad hands, and the one ice-blue eye lanced his soul.

“ ** _Never_** say that,” Slade growled fiercely. “I don’t presume to know the Lord’s will, but I do not doubt that there is still _good_ for you to work in the world.”

Slade didn’t lie to him; Slade never lied. Dick let his eyes fall shut, intently feeling the points where Slade’s fingertips pressed into his skin. The mercenary was absurdly strong, strong enough to carry Dick’s weight, for a little while at least.

It felt like being suspended in air, cradled and safe. Slade would not let him hit the ground. Dick let himself go lax, finally having the chance to lay down and truly _rest_. His breath was still shallow, but his gulping gasps slowed to a steady rhythm.

“Thank you.”

Slade hummed approvingly.

“There’s no showering with fresh stitches, but the master bath has a bench; you can at least wash your hair and scrub yourself down. I’ll get an extended release so you can sleep through the night, it will kick in by the time you’re done bathing.”

Dick _did_ feel oily and gross, and as difficult as washing might be, it would be worth getting rid of the grimy feeling. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“Just...another minute,” he whispered, “let’s sit for just another moment, here. Just sit another moment here with me.”

* * *

### Content Warning

Wintergreen feeds Dick toast and preserves that are spiked with crushed Oxycodone.

Dick is high on a combination of Oxy and (whatever’s left of the) Versed for a good part of the chapter. He takes it in stride and has a good time. However, Dick “crashes” pretty hard when they wear off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary from “Family and Loyalty” by Gang Starr and J. Cole.
> 
> Gotham News: _Area Vigilante Befriends Local Crime Lord_
> 
> _Hello, my name is Dick Grayson, and I consider being blackmailed into being a live-in tutor for the surprise daughter of one of my greatest foes to be "a bit of normalcy"._
> 
> Thank you to njw for helping me find the reference about Ra’s. 
> 
> If you are fluent/a native speaker, please feel free to correct my German.
> 
> I've written a meta post about ethnicity in SIE, discussing background and research, because I hold it as very important. Here's a link if you're interested: [Click Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381877/chapters/72178668)
> 
> POW-MIA— Prisoners of War, Missing in Action.  
> "Sat Nav"— The British term for GPS. I believe that "GPS" could be argued as a valid word in Scrabble, for the same reasons that SCUBA is accepted. Sat nav, however, would not be considered acceptable.  
> Slade's quote is Ecclesiastes 3:1-4
> 
> “Failure is death” — _Nightwing_ (2016) #37  
> “Do it better” — _Nightwing_ (1996) #101  
> Rose’s Hmong name is Xia — _Deathstroke_ (2016) #10  
> John “Giovanni” Grayson — _Secret Origins_ (2014) #8  
> Rose living with her mother’s “family” in Minneapolis— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #10  
> Ra’s is a creep— _Red Robin_ (2009) #12  
> Multiverse schema— DC Website [[Sauce](https://www.dccomics.com/blog/2019/04/18/the-map-of-the-multiverse)]  
> Nightwing’s duel with Ra’s— _Nightwing_ (1996) #152  
> People sometimes think Rose is Chinese— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #6  
> Wintergreen hates being called Billy, and Slade does it to piss him off— _Deathstroke_ (2016)  
> Wintergreen’s nickname ‘Randy’— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #30  
> The Fist of Cain— _Nightwing_ (2011) #30  
> Two Face and the Baseball Bat— _Robin: Year One_ (2000) #3  
> Bruce fires Dick as a result of the above incident— _Robin: Year One_ (2000) #3  
> Marie Lloyd — _Nightwing_ (2016) #32
>
>> "Jagori” is not canon
> 
> Black Mask and the RPG— _Batman_ (1940) #646
>
>> In the comics, Jay doesn’t kill Black Mask with the RPG. He does here, though! :D
> 
> Dick is a polyglot — _Nightwing_ (2016) #54
>
>> In Rebirth, he can speak twelve languages, at least one of which is German.
> 
>   
> If you’re interested, here are the scale floor plans for the “safehouse”. There have been some small changes to furniture since I made them; the software I used was a free trial.
> 
> Loft: [[Link](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1BICO9Txu0p148L-7NEQAPWjdVtPKngTV/view?usp=sharing)]
> 
> Main Floor: [[Link](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1WqtE-9xxsnIeS6FwKI0KBa1YJvO-aHLa/view?usp=sharing)]
> 
> Basement: [[Link](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1aMgE4eiF4fLJLhG9ZsYbK3Y7Y7mwBM7T/view?usp=sharing)]


	9. These Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die._   
>  _Where you invest your love, you invest your life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _Content Warning:_ [Click Here]  
> **   
> 

### August 2nd | 11a

Slade stretched contentedly as he finished his mid-morning workout. A full meal, rest, and an entire _eight_ hours of sleep had the mercenary back to full functionality.

Slipping in through the screen porch, he noted that the bunk room door was still shut. Richard must still be sleeping, though he’d certainly be due for more pain medication. The bird had a long few days, Slade supposed, as he quickly ran through the shower. The more Grayson rested, the faster he’d heal.

Tugging on a pair of trousers and a worn button-down, Slade made his way to the kitchen for a post-workout smoothie. The sight that greeted him, however, made him stop dead in his tracks.

Richard sat at the island, engrossed in the German book he'd started the night before, mouthing words as he read. This was nothing notable. However, the little bird was in one of Slade’s flannels.

Grayson wasn't a small man by any means, but the shirt was at least two sizes too big. It dipped at his shoulder, showing a bit of collarbone, and fell to pool around his thighs. He'd loosely cuffed the sleeves to his elbows, one of which rested on the counter, propping up his head of sleep-tousled hair.

That...did things to a man.

The noise of the bathroom door made Richard look up from his book, and his bright smile made the mercenary’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Perhaps his daughter was right about something—maybe he was being too soft with Richard, letting him get the idea that Slade was some sort of decent person.

“Good morning, Scary Man.”

He put a single finger under Richard’s chin and tilted it. Everywhere that wasn’t protected by the domino was now a shade of purple or black: the man’s face would be a mess of bruising for at least a week, if not longer.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose any teeth.”

Grayson’s eyes were blown black; perhaps Billy slipped him a different med with breakfast.

“More German?” Slade asked, glancing over at the book.

“Yeah.” Richard seemed somewhat disoriented. “I’m waiting for the wash to spin out—sorry about stealing one of your shirts. My hoodie is the only non-dress shirt I have that does up the front, and I’d rather not pull stitches. It’s nothing you and Randy haven’t seen, but Rose...”

Much to Slade’s long standing ire, Rose spent the first eleven years of her life in a whorehouse. When Richard trained Rose, they’d tried to impart some degree of body modesty onto the child. Those efforts weren’t horribly successful; Grayson was a performer then a vigilante, and consequently didn’t have an ounce of shame in his entire being.

“You’re doing laundry.”

The bird gave him a confused look. "Yes? Well, I’m doing everyone’s laundry. I only had a few things to wash; it would be wasteful to do a load with only my stuff, and we're all here together.”

Slade leaned back against the island and studied Grayson. His mind pulled together pieces of information to try and explain the man before him. Richard might have lived his adolescence in the luxury of Wayne Manor, but he’d been born in a trailer. Slade realized that part of him had always seen Nightwing as a silver-spoon brat. It was a woefully inaccurate conclusion.

He’d spent the first twelve years of his life working, training, and performing. Wayne took him in shortly before his thirteenth birthday, and their relationship had fractured no more than four years later. After that, he’d lived with the Titans full time before training Rose.

“What?” he asked, drawing Slade from his pondering.

The mercenary crossed his arms. “You shouldn’t be lifting anything, not with your ribs.”

Grayson’s face lit up in a grin. “I didn’t have to, Rose showed me the laundry chutes—they’re seriously nifty.”

Who the Hell called anything ‘ _nifty_ ’?

“You are an odd little bird.” The response to that was another blinding smile. “What did Billy give you this morning?”

“Nothing,” Grayson closed the book around his thumb and looked sheepish. “I think he felt bad after last night’s mishap. I’ve taken eight-hundred of ibuprofen.”

It was an honest mistake—Wintergreen assumed that Richard would have a tolerance to painkillers, given his nightly activities, and would be familiar with one of the most common narcotics on the market; there was nothing to feel bad about.

“Idiot.” Slade jerked his head towards the basement. “Come on, those dressings need to be changed.”

Richard grimaced, but got to his feet and followed Slade. “ _Joy_.”

 _Finally_ , a reaction that made sense.

* * *

Grayson very carefully clambered onto the table and began to unbutton his borrowed shirt.

Slade pulled the rolling stool over to sit behind the man, allowing him to be at eye-level while he carefully undid the bandages wrapping Grayson’s torso. Like his face, the bruises on his back were fully-flowered in vivid purple and black, but these painted a disturbing image. The mercenary growled.

“Slade?” Richard turned his head to try and look over his shoulder.

“Wayne doesn’t deserve your loyalty,” he bit.

How could Wayne do this? He ran his fingers lightly over the mottled and inflamed flesh. Slade knew that he, himself, was a grade-A bastard, but this….

“Don’t be dramatic,” Richard scoffed. “It’s not the first time something like this has happened.”

Slade shifted so he was aside Grayson and could look at the man’s profile.

“What do you mean?” he said flatly.

“It was after Jason’s death; B was hurting.” Richard shrugged diffidently. “I _did_ lose a tooth that time, but being thrown out of the Manor was more painful.”

“That’s _not_ an excuse.”

Goddamn it, Slade had the _authority_ to speak on the subject. His hands curled into fists. Anger, and a million other fiery emotions, hummed beneath his skin. One day, Slade would see Wayne in Hell— _that_ was certain. 

“What are you so bent out of shape about?” Grayson snipped. “You’re the one who bandaged me yesterday.”

“What am I bent out of shape about?” he thundered, rising to his feet. “ _What am I bent out of shape about_? The fact that Wayne is a rat bastard who savagely beat you and threw you out, not hours after you _died_ , and apparently it’s not the first time.”

Richard crossed his arms and his eyes were flinty. “It’s work, Slade. I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

The mercenary towered over Grayson. “This isn’t business, this is _beating your children_.”

“B is _not_ —”

“I don’t give a _shit_ what you consider him to be: a guardian acts _in loco parentis_. It doesn’t matter if he legally adopted you, and it doesn’t matter how old you are; at least you have enough sense to deny him a title he doesn’t deserve.”

Richard ground his jaw and glared daggers at Slade.

“I wonder, how did he explain the bruises to CPS—”

“ _Shut up_!” Grayson shouted.

The force was too much for the bird’s injured ribs, and he gave a pained whine, arm wrapping protectively around his chest.

“Robin was _my_ choice,” he said quietly.

Slade closed his eye, tamped down arguments about child soldiers which sat on the tip of his tongue, and forced himself to unclench his fists as he counted backwards from ten. Once he was sure he was in control, he walked to the doorway at the far end of the room.

“Richard, come here.” The man looked suspicious, deciding whether to be defiant on principle, so Slade added, “the mirror.”

Appeased by the reasoning, he slid off the table and padded to the bathroom. Slade nudged him into the right position, then opened one of the medicine cabinet’s mirrored doors so Grayson could see his own back.

“Oh.”

Squarely in the center of his back was a perfectly boot-shaped bruise.

“Jumping down onto the Batboat didn’t buy me the distance I’d hoped.”

“He could have crippled you with a move like that.”

The mercenary clicked his tongue and shut the cabinet with a _snap_ , then shuffled them both back to Medical. Slade put a bottle of pills and a water on the table next to Grayson, who looked at them as if they’d personally insulted his mother.

“Don’t be stupid; letting your body be in this much pain will only slow your healing rate.” They glared at each other. “You can do it yourself, or I’ll hit you with a sedative dart.”

Those hurt like a sonofabitch, Slade knew—many foolish souls weren’t aware of Deathstroke’s effective immunity to drugs, and few recognized him outside of his uniform.

“Fine,” Richard huffed, picking up the bottle, “but only because I know you absolutely _would_ tranq me.”

“Damn right I would,” Slade muttered, returning with rolls of gauze and antibiotic ointment.

They sat in blessed silence while Slade worked, carefully re-wrapping the jagged mess of Grayson’s back. Never one to stay quiet for long, the bird spoke as Slade finished.

“I quit, you know: after Jason. I hung up the cape,” Richard said softly.

Slade couldn’t stop the raised eyebrow. “ _You_ quit.”

He shrugged. “The Titans were disbanded at the time. Haly’s was happy to have me. It felt…good. It felt like going home.” The last words were a near whisper.

That didn’t exactly qualify as quitting, in Slade’s opinion. It sounded more like Grayson took a forced, but much-needed, sabbatical away from the idiocy of his life and mentor. He must have been about nineteen at the time, when most young people were studying a trade or taking introductory college courses.

At that age, Slade successfully completed the selection process for Special Forces, despite the minimum age requirement of twenty. Neither he or Grayson, the mercenary supposed, were bound by the expectation of society.

“Why, on God’s green Earth, did you go back to Gotham? I know Nightwing was active within a year of Todd’s death.”

Honestly, it was like the stories of battered women who returned to their tormentors; Wayne and his vigilante nonsense was the only life Grayson had—he was too young to have built anything stable for himself. He could have stayed with the circus, but after spending seven years of being trained into an elite warrior, Richard would have never been content.

“I wasn’t involved with training Jason, not until very shortly before his death. I was not a good brother,” Grayson confessed, as if it were the deepest sin.

Everything, from his downcast face to slumped shoulders, radiated shame.

“I wasn’t about to repeat my mistakes with Tim; his training and well-being were more important than my disagreements with Bruce.” Grayson rolled the flannel over in his hands. “I moved back into the Manor and dedicated to Tim.”

‘ _Being beaten by your father and cast out_ ‘ didn’t constitute ‘ _disagreements_ ’, but the mercenary kept his mouth shut. Richard turned his head to look up at Slade, who was carefully tying the end of the gauze. The little bird’s eyes were haunted.

“You understand what it’s like to get a second chance.”

Slade did. Rose had been one of the most terrifying yet profound blessings in his life. He hadn’t kept his boys safe, but by God, he didn’t make the same mistakes twice.

* * *

### August 3rd | 2p

Even after two days of doing little more than sleep, Dick was exhausted. It was partly the narcotics—Randy cajoled him into taking heavy-duty painkillers for the first few days, and he’d agreed on the stipulation of nothing in the Oxy family: at least hydrocodone didn’t make him stupid. Still, Dick was tired and bored as he lay face-down on the sectional. He wasn’t alone, though, and that was a wonderful change. 

Rose’s phone made little noises as she played some app game.

" _Soo_ , you're done with high school. Are you thinking about college?"

"I applied and got accepted, but deferred for a year. Mom would be really proud of me, yet..." She sighed. "I'm not sure if I want to do higher ed."

Formal education was an admirable goal—Dick acknowledged its importance—but he’d only ever found suffering in a standard classroom. He also _very_ much understood the need to find one’s own path.

"I guess a better question is what do you want to learn more about? I think 'what do you want to do with your life' is too big of a question." Dick smiled at her. "Even I don't know that!"

Rose glanced around surreptitiously. "Look, don't tell dad, 'kay?"

Keeping anything from Slade, especially in his own house, was an exercise in futility.

"I can't promise never to tell him, but I'll keep quiet otherwise."

She knew that it was the most assurance she’d get. "I think Joey might be considering going back to Jericho."

To say that Slade was unhappy about his son becoming a vigilante would be an understatement. When Jericho first joined the Titans, Dick half expected a visit from Deathstroke, despite Adeline and Doctor Isherwood’s assurances that Slade wouldn’t dare.

"I can see why you don't want me mentioning that to your dad. You and Joey got on well?"

Young Rose had been told exactly _why_ she needed to be so extensively trained, and also why she couldn’t meet her brother.

“Hell yah!” she grinned widely. “Dad might have _neglected to mention_ my existence, so Joey was a bit surprised when he showed up, but after the initial shock wore off, everything was chill. It would have been a fun vacation, if not for the whole ‘end-of-the-world’ thing.”

Something flashing on the screen drew Rose’s attention, and Dick sighed internally—the “oversight” was _very_ Slade.

“ _That little shit_ ,” she cursed under her breath. “Eat a triple-word score.”

Vengeance dealt, the radiance in her affect fell.

"He was rattled by your death. He's got meta abilities and training; it feels like a waste to sit behind a desk. In his eyes—I think in many people's eyes—you were martyred."

Dick cringed. He liked inspiring others, but the idea of being held up as some kind of martyred hero was unsettling. He put the thought out of his mind and focused on the more-positive part of Rose’s statement.

"Jericho was a great teammate. He was like a sassy arch-angel, and he had the gentlest heart."

The memories of a bright-eyed Joey Wilson were sweet, even if that iteration of the Titans hadn’t even lasted a full year. Dick smiled softly, letting himself be warmed.

"God, he is such a sass master,” she agreed with a fervent nod.

Letting her phone rest in her lap, Rose pensively considered the living room’s light mocha walls.

“I'm an adult now, and I've been considering it too. Well—not exactly. I couldn't do what dad does; I've killed people, but I don't want to make a career of killing. At the same time, I can't do the whole 'peace, justice, and public service' gig."

Very few people walked that line, and even fewer kept their balance. Luckily, Dick knew someone who did.

“Take a full year to think it over, and start up a serious training regimen in the meantime. I can't put in a word for you anymore, but if you’re looking for a place to start, I would tell you to contact Red Hood."

"The crime lord?” She looked over skeptically. “The guy who killed Black Mask with an RPG?"

Compared to the duffel bag incident, Mask’s death was tame—though Jay had been Pit-mad during the former. At his heart, though, Jason was the same as he’d been as a gawky fifteen-year-old: a rough-and-tumble Robin with his heart in the right place.

Dick made a dismissive gesture. "Crime lord by day, crime lord _and_ vigilante by night. He's brutal, harsh, and unyielding, but he is a very good person.”

God, poor Jason; this deception would cut him to the marrow. If nothing else, they could count on each other—not anymore. Dick’s chest ached.

“Get his attention, ask to study under him—he knows ability and talent. You can tell him you spent a year training with Nightwing, but decided to finish school first, he’ll respect that."

"Will you miss Hood?" Rose’s tone was gentle, possessing an emotional quotient exponentially larger than Dick’s standard company.

He’d taken his second chance with Jason by the throat, and he’d found a best friend, maybe even better than Wally.

"I already do."

Peripherally, he noted Slade coming up from the basement and starting the coffee maker. _No coffee for Dick_ , though, he thought grumpily—not with the drugs in his system.

"It's not like you'll never see Hood again.” She smiled, and gently nudged his shoulder. “You'll be back to that cesspit of a city you call home."

"Rose, there is no going home,” he said, though not unkindly.

The thought hurt, but distantly, as if numbed by Novocain.

"Why not? Take out the boogieman, and you're set."

"I was unmasked on live television. If I'm in Gotham, I'll draw too much media attention, and people speculate. I’d be risking not just Batman, but Nyx, Oracle, and Red Hood as well. It could take down Wayne Enterprises too; the results would be catastrophic."

The damage control B and Oracle must be running had to be fantastic. Tim was likely working overtime on Reddit, 4chan, Twitter, and other such hives of scum and villainy. His meticulous collection of sock puppet accounts for trolling, bating, and nudging conspiracy theorists was nothing short of impressive. At least they would be busy, and not dwelling on Dick’s apparent death. It was little consolation.

“If I succeed, I probably could discreetly let them know I'm alive, but I doubt they’d ever truly forgive me. Batman plays his mind games—withholds information, tells lies. We’re never supposed to lie to each other about things like this, not after two dead Robins.”

Knowing it was the right thing to do didn’t assuage the guilt over the pain he was assuredly causing.

"I'm sorry that I'm hurting them, but I'm not sorry that I'm doing this. I am the eldest brother: it's my job to guide and protect everyone who comes after me. I take this so they don’t have to, to keep them safe."

Dick’s eyes scrunched shut. “If I’d held my ground, B would have asked Nyx, and Nyx would have said yes. He just turned seventeen; he’s a _child_.”

If Dick could do anything to spare Tim from trials meant for an adult, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Timmy was Dick’s _baby brother_ , forced to grow up far too fast. So much of the youthful exuberance Dick remembered from the baby bird’s first years as a Bat was long since extinguished.

There was so much Dick never shared with Tim, who returned from his Quest soul-weary and aged beyond his years, no longer the kid who came to Dick for guidance. Damian had been Dick’s legacy, but Damian was gone, and he was unlikely to get another opportunity to leave something behind. Everything would die with him: the history of daj’s family, his parents’ memories, how the Boy Wonder came to exist. Dick opened his eyes and looked at Rose—maybe not _everything_.

"I don’t think I’ve actually told anyone the full story of Robin.”

“Not even Batman?” she asked doubtfully.

“ _Especially_ not Batman.”

If B had known his true plans, he’d probably have never allowed Dick out onto the streets.

“Story time!” Rose cheered, tossing aside her phone and flopping onto her front. “ _This is the story of_ …”

Years ago, he’d bribed her with tales of Robin’s adventures, which he always began in the same way. Dick smiled and closed his eyes, drawing close to the warm memory. It gave him the energy to haul himself up and sit cross-legged facing Rose, who kicked her legs in the air like a delighted child.

After a moment of thought, he began: “this is the story of how a circus brat took up the hobby of punching criminals in the night, _or_ , the Story of Robin.”

“C.C. Haly and Brothers’ Circus—or just Haly’s—was one of the last traveling big-tops in the country. It had the traditional side-show: a fortune teller, strong man, knife-throwers, bearded lady, little guy, an escape artist, some midway games—but the main attraction was the nightly show.”

He could nearly feel the pre-show buzz under his skin, heady nervous excitement. Dick unconsciously rubbed his hands together, smelling chalk and sawdust. Heat from the spot lamps radiated just out of reach, their whine mixed with the roaring crowd. Dick’s heart thrummed, ready. _And now presenting_ —

“The Flying Graysons, my parents, were trapeze artists. They started teaching me before I could walk, and I began performing regularly when I was about ten.”

It was rare that Dick let himself indulge in such recollections, but he sunk happily into the brightly-colored memories of his life before it became a world of shadows.

“I was never bored, and never idle. Everyone had something to teach me or a task to do, whether it was peeling potatoes, tallying tickets, couriering messages—remember, this was before texting—or mucking pens. My favorite task was scrubbing down the elephants.”

An elephant never forgets, and Zitka never forgot him, even after years of separation; she saved his life, pulling him from under the burning big-top.

“I thought I was the luckiest kid on the planet,” he said thickly, “I loved my parents, I loved the circus, and I loved the trapeze.” 

Consciously pulling himself back from the emotional edge, Dick continued.

“When I was twelve, we performed in Gotham, as we did almost every year. _That_ night, I overheard someone arguing with Pop Haly in the manager's trailer. It didn’t seem important at the time, and I was hyped for the performance.”

This was never easy to recount, no matter how much time passed.

“I could do the routine in my sleep. I swung forward to catch daj in a double cutaway; dad was a few seconds behind her, preparing to flip after she left her bar. There were two quick _cracks_ , like gunshots, and daj slid through my fingers.”

Dick’s fingers twitched forward, grasping.

“It was okay, though, there was a net. It was okay.”

Daj looked up at him, surprised, then smiled.

“Dad dropped a little faster so they could grab each other and make a show of it.”

Her eyes glittered in delight, and she laughed as dad grabbed her hand.

“‘Wing?” someone called over the cheering crowd. It was not a voice that he’d ever associated with the circus. _Rose_.

Dick sucked in a breath. _Coffee_ , Slade was making coffee. _Pine_ —they were in the woods. Flexing his hand, he felt soft upholstery; he was sitting on the sectional. Fog lifted from his vision, and Dick wasn’t under the big top anymore. Rose looked at him with concern, and he grinned weakly.

“Don’t forget, it’s a performance: always smile and make your accidents seem intentional.”

She didn’t look like she bought the act, but let him continue without further question.

“They fell through the net like tissue paper, it didn’t slow their descent at all, but it was better that way. They died on impact.”

Dick focused on the sound of the birds outside the screen door, not the sound of bodies falling fifty feet and colliding with the hard ground.

“I almost threw myself after them on instinct, because that’s _usually_ a fast and easy way down from the bar. I caught myself at the last moment.”

It felt like it took ages to gain enough momentum to reach the platform, then scramble down the ladder. He’d rushed towards his parents, but was swept aside by Danny, one of the roustabouts. “ _Don’t look, Kid_ ,” he’d said as he hugged Dick. “ _Whatever you do, don’t look._ ”

"We raised the rigging together, and dad checked the lines every morning. A freak accident would be one bar snapping, but two bars _and_ the net? I refused to believe it.” He shook his head. “They said I was a grief-stricken child.”

The authorities weren’t _wrong_ , but they weren’t right either. Dick slept in his parents’ trailer, pillows still smelling of dad’s Old Spice and daj’s juniper lotion, those first nights when nothing felt real. It was like floating in a dream, and clutching to the knowledge that _he_ had to find his parents’ killer kept Dick tethered.

“It took me a few evenings of snooping to figure out a mob enforcer by the name of Tony Zucco sabotaged the lines, because Haly's refused to pay protection money to the Falcone family."

He’d been near-consumed by boiling anger, but it had long since burned out of his veins, only to be replaced by a hollow sort of weariness. Dick found Rose’s eyes.

"Zucco was a dead man walking. I knew how to pick locks and I was comfortable with a knife. It was a matter of waiting for the right evening to break into his house and slit his throat as he slept, with one of his own kitchen knives.”

Rose nodded thoughtfully, a passive and non-judgmental ear to something Dick had never dared voice.

“Once he was dead, I planned to make my way down to Haly's main office in Florida and stay with them ‘till the circus returned in the winter. A strike against one is a strike against all—simple as that—nobody would have condemned me for what I did. My parents would have been very disappointed, but I couldn't let Zucco go unpunished. In the days before Batman, Gotham’s corruption was legendary.”

Dick paused, realizing that he never heard Slade go back downstairs. He didn’t mind sharing this with the mercenary, either.

"Of course, that never happened. The state put me in the Gotham Youth Center, on the grounds that my parents didn’t legally name a caretaker and a circus was ‘too unconventional’ for a child. The GYC was essentially juvie, and after getting beat on the first night, I ran. The streets of Gotham weren’t any more merciful, but at least I was free.”

The Youth Center’s security had been laughable, especially to a trained acrobat. Urban Gotham was a new kind of rigging for Dick, and he developed a taste for rooftops and fire escapes long before he became Robin.

“One night Batman found me keeping surveillance on the circus, and I told him I was going to get justice for my parents, because they'd get none through the law—their deaths weren’t an accident, and the lines had been sabotaged by Zucco. He believed me.”

Batman already knew there was foul play, but Dick didn’t know that, and having an adult listen _and_ believe him was immensely relieving.

“B asked me to give him a chance, to let him take on the case personally. I agreed. Magically, about two weeks later, Bruce Wayne visited the circus while Sampson was letting me use his shower. Bruce asked if I’d like to be his ward. I was hesitant, because he was a rube and moneyed, but Sampson encouraged it: Wayne could give me a future that the streets or circus couldn’t.”

The strong man had been correct, just in ways he’d never imagined.

“Sleeping in the Manor was better than sleeping rough, but it felt like living in a mausoleum. Bruce was frequently absent, and over a month later, Zucco was still at-large. I was angry and lonely, so I started climbing out my window at night to continue surveillance on Haly’s—that nearly got me killed. One night, some mafioso caught me eavesdropping. I took a beating, but Batman swooped in and saved me. I woke up in the Cave’s med bay and finally figured out why Bruce was always gone.”

“I asked him to train me. Eventually he agreed, but I don't think he ever actually intended to let me on the streets." Dick grinned. “I’m pretty sure he hoped I’d get bored or discouraged.”

"Isn’t Batman more stubborn than a crotchety donkey?" Rose asked.

An aborted wheeze burst from Dick’s mouth, and he gripped a cushion for support. He’d forgotten her tendency to be unapologetically direct. They’d tried to curb it when Dick tutored her, but now—after living in a web of lies—he very much appreciated Rose’s tact.

“Yes. B might be more stubborn than your dad. I know that seems impossible, but I assure you, it is.”

Rose snort-laughed, somewhere between amusement and sympathy. Normally, changing Bruce’s mind was a feat only within Alfred’s considerable abilities, but Dick managed it on a rare occasion.

"It was two things,” he said proudly. “First, I helped B solve the Hangman murders. Second, I saved his backside when we had a small break-in at the Cave." Dick grinned.

"I'm pretty sure that's why Two-Face hates me: there’s nothing like getting kicked in the mouth by a cheeky tween in front of your felonious associates."

Dent paid him back less than a year later with a Louisville Slugger, but that was neither here nor there.

“I kept my head in a fight with Ivy, Two-Face, Mr. Freeze, and the Joker—managed to knock out Ivy and Freeze myself, then worked with Batman against the last two. I think that made B realize that having a partner to watch his back wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“ _What are you **wearing**_?” Bruce had asked, taking in Dick’s cobbled-together bits of trapeze costume and a spirit-gum domino, as they stood over triumphantly over the unconscious rogues. Dick had grinned, finally feeling like he’d found his place, a sunspot counterbalance to the Dark Knight.

Now, the adage came to his lips as if no time had passed:

“ _Oda dženo mardo, so ačiľa čoro, oda mek goreder, so hino korkoro_ —badly off is he who is poor; even worse off is he who is alone.”

"The circus is a _family_ : we work together, we live together, we succeed together. Dad told me that we must all care for each other, because everybody in the circus is all anyone in the circus has. I was taught to help others, because we become strong by uplifting one another."

With every word, he felt more centered within his mind. Dick needed this reminder; masks could be broken but ideas were bulletproof.

“Robin is the living embodiment of everything my parents taught me: Robin is _family_.”

This was his _heritage_. Robin and Nightwing—the vigilantes—might be gone, but Richard Robin John Grayson was not. Robin was more than a mask, Robin _was_ Dick, a name bestowed by his mother in a tradition of resilience that spanned hundreds of years. Generations lived within him, they made him _strong_.

"Robin was a _choice_ : the choice to be the net for Batman, to be the net for anyone who needed it. Where you dedicate your heart, you dedicate your life. So, ask yourself, what do you love?"

Rose looked down at her hands contemplatively. "Huh."

It was a weighty question for anyone, never mind a teen. Dick reached over and mussed her hair.

“Don’t forget that sometimes answers are easier to find when you look at the question from a different point of view; I personally recommend upside down.”

She whacked his hand aside with a big grin. “Dork.”

He made an abbreviated, theatrical half-bow, which made Rose laugh as she collected her phone. She kissed him on the side of the head, and Dick watched her drift up towards the bunk room.

* * *

Something warm settled in his chest. He leaned into the couch, exhausted, but feeling good: he could still be a mentor, even stripped of his mask and name.

Slade poured himself coffee, considering the wealth of new information he’d just acquired. There was one detail itching at his mind, though.

“That wasn’t Italian.”

“Na.” Grayson’s head appeared over the back of the couch, and he leaned his chin on the cushions. “Why would you think Italian?”

With a fresh mug in hand, Slade padded over, and leaned against the end of the island.

“Your pronunciation of Giovanni, and your coloration.”

He smiled playfully. “You’re not wrong—dad was first generation; his parents were born in Italy.”

“ _Oda dženo mardo, so ačiľa čoro, oda mek goreder, so hino korkoro,"_ Slade repeated the phrase back, rolling the words around his mouth. “It’s Slavic, close to Slovakian or Czech.”

Grayson grinned mischievously and replied in the same language. His tone made it sound like it was a “yes and no” sort of answer. Slade smirked behind his mug. Very well, he could play games.

“Yet, you don’t have any particularly Eastern European features, though lighter coloration is recessive. What did you say at dinner, ‘brown enough to be stopped for ‘random’ security inspections and get called slurs, but white enough to pass for ‘fashionably tan’’?”

Richard stuttered and made an abortive cough. Slade had a chuckle at his expense, which earned a dirty glare.

“You were very intoxicated, it’s fine if you don’t remember.”

The response was something decidedly impolite, Slade was nearly certain. He tapped his chin. The bit about slurs jogged Slade’s memory, back when he researched Nightwing before approaching the vigilante about training Rose. He turned a smug grin on the little bird.

“The tabloids called you ‘Wayne’s Gypsy Boy’.”

“ _Roma_ ,” Richard said firmly, eyes boring holes into Slade. “Daj was Roma. If you wouldn’t call Lillian a chink or gook, don’t call my mother a gypsy.”

Slade nodded respectfully; he understood the importance of names.

“Years ago, the circus did a European tour, and the final stop was in Paris.” Richard ducked his head and chuckled. “Dad was Haly’s star flier, but he was practically tripping over himself when he met daj. She was just as taken with him. When the time came for Haly’s to return to the States, she took a leap of faith. She left everything behind—her family, her community, her people—to be with dad.”

Things like that only happened in stories...yet Richard was living proof. His trusting, loving nature had undoubtedly been fostered from a young age. Well-adjusted men didn’t become Batman, but if the story he’d told Rose were true, Robin came from somewhere very different.

“So the nauseating sentimentality is genetic?”

Grayson flashed Slade his biggest grin. “You bet!”

Slade rolled his eye.

“The language is East Slovakian Romani; my great-grandmother, great-grand uncle, and some cousins moved to France after the fall of the Third Reich. Their parents were shot by Nazis for aiding the Slovakian resistance.”

“Oh, so it’s penchant for being difficult and meddlesome, too.”

Richard laughed, beautiful and bright. His eyes shone.

“Daj was named Jagori because it means ‘little fire’; she gave my grandmother hell. Yes, I suppose you could say it runs in the family.”

The words were lyrical. It was a rare tongue, something that might prove useful in the future.

“Have you ever taught someone?”

There was a heavy pause.

“Damian.” Richard looked away, out the screen door. “I taught him Romani, he taught me calligraphy— one of those endeavors was more successful than the other,” Grayson joked brokenly. “I hadn’t actually spoken it at all since he died, not until today.”

If Slade were reading the situation right, and he nearly always did, the opening was clear. He circled around the couch and lounged a comfortable distance away from the bird.

“It seems a shame,” he said, sipping his coffee and pretending to stare out the porch door, “to let it die. Can you teach me?”

Grayson looked at him stupidly. “I’m not literate.”

More the challenge, and it seemed like the kind of language that would be more useful for simple conversation, not writing or formal debate.

“I’m not looking to translate Homer,” Slade said wryly. 

He watched the gears turning behind Grayson’s eyes, but knew the bird was already snared.

“I suppose I’ve got four weeks and not a whole lot on my schedule.” He tipped his head sideward and studied Slade. “You probably learn very quickly.”

The mercenary smirked. “You’re going to find out _how_ fast.”

* * *

Admittedly, it was a pleasurable way to spend the afternoon. Grayson _could_ teach, that’s why he’d brought the bird in for Rose, after all. Not long before Billy appeared to start dinner, they came to a natural stopping point.

"Have you ever considered what your life would be like without vigilante nonsense?"

"I mean, everyone has—at least fleetingly.” He snorted ruefully. “For me, I guess it’s running black ops."

Slade leaned back and fixed him with a look. "What, exactly, are you getting yourself into?"

Grayson licked his lips, and shifted slightly. "It's not that I don't trust you with the information," he began slowly, "in fact, I'd rather tell you, so at least one other person will know where I'm going.”

"But?" Slade raised an eyebrow as he slid back to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee, just to spite Richard. The bird eyed his mug enviously.

"This group—they're international espionage—has invasive mental technology, even _you_ couldn’t defend yourself from them. Batman is concerned that they’re amassing a list of the identities of anyone who wears a mask.” He looked at Slade pointedly.

Yes, _yes_ : that included rogues, Slade got the message.

“So, the Bat wants you to destroy that list.”

He nodded. "Among other things, notably a threat assessment and general information gathering."

Grayson was being sent in naked, or mostly naked: never a good situation.

"Do you have a plan?"

“I’m going to get recruited. I’m exactly the kind of person they look for—a vigilante without a home or country.”

Slade looked at him for a long moment, leaning on the island. Psyops were never Slade's game, but Specops were, a lifetime ago. He'd spent almost twenty-five years in the service of the United States, and about seventeen of those as a member of Delta Force.

They sent men like him to hunt things that went _bump_ in the night, threats the American people would never hear about. In some places, they had blanket permission to kill on sight. It was brutal and ugly and merciless. Grayson was far from green or innocent, but vigilantism and the world he was about to walk into were entirely different beasts.

“You don’t have what it takes, Kid.” Richard froze. “People like them? They won’t tolerate your Boy Scout bullshit. You won't cut deals, you won't compromise on morals.”

“The hell do you know, Slade?” he snarled.

The mercenary chuckled coldly. “Little Bird, I’ve fought you for a decade. You can’t bring yourself to pull the trigger, or to leave someone to die, or to look the other way.”

Richard’s skin was tough but his heart was too soft.

"Once," his voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. "I did it once, and I've never regretted it."

A genuine surprise, though Slade didn’t let it show. The bird gripped his thigh, knuckles white, and his tone grew dark.

“Cracked skull, shattered sternum, collapsed lung, about forty other fractures, and 60% of his body covered in flash burns. He didn’t die from the beating, he died from the explosion, because the warehouse door was locked and he couldn’t escape.”

Richard looked up and met Slade’s gaze, eyes wild. “If you think I didn’t repay Joker for every mark on my little brother’s body, for the bullet he put in Batgirl, you’re out of your goddamn mind. _I beat that sonofabitch ‘till he stopped breathing_.”

Passionate, hands-on: intimate—very Grayson. _We’re as civilized as rabid wolves,_ indeed _._ Slade had always known Nightwing to have a vicious temper, but he’d only ever seen its edges, creeping beneath the surface; the man had iron-clad control. It was an admirable quality. There was nothing to be gained by testing it now, though, so Slade stuck to the simple truth.

“The Joker is still alive, so clearly you didn’t do it right.”

Unadulterated fury etched itself in every line on Richard's face. He looked like he was about to launch himself over the sofa, despite his injuries. Slade loosened his body, preparing to dodge and possibly use his mug as a projectile.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Richard spat.

When no attack followed the invective, Slade continued. “If you wanted to keep your family safe, Grayson, you would have made sure he stayed dead. You couldn’t save Jason and you couldn’t protect Batgirl or Haly’s.”

Richard looked at the ground and let out a shuddering breath. When he raised his head, his eyes were like daggers but his tone silken.

“I suppose our track records are almost even: one dead, one maimed. You didn’t keep your family safe either, _Slade_.”

The mercenary’s mug _slammed_ on the island and he drew upon his full height, glaring death down at the man seated on the couch.

“ _Watch your goddamn mouth_.”

Before Slade finished speaking, Grayson stood, spun on his heel, and strode through the back porch and out of the house, screen door slamming behind him. Billy glared judgmentally from the kitchen, but Slade paid him no mind. If the bird couldn’t handle the truth, he’d never survive what awaited him.

* * *

### Content Warnings

Dick has a low-grade panic attack/flashback while telling Rose about his parent’s deaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary from “Awake My Soul” by Mumford and Sons
> 
> Poor fuckin’ Dick, he’s got another storm coming. 
> 
> _Very Rose Voice_ : “It wasn’t a whorehouse, Dad. It was a _whorehome_. God, get it right.”
> 
>  _in loco parentis_ — Latin, literally “in the place of a parent”. This is a legal term that affords the rights and responsibilities of a parent to someone acting as a child’s parent. It is distinct from adoption. 
> 
> CPS— Child Protective Services 
> 
> Roustabout— a circus worker who erects and dismantles tents, cares for the grounds, and handles animals and equipment. [courtesy of Merriam Webster]
> 
> Juvie— Short for “juvenile hall”, aka American Jail for Kids.
> 
> Dick’s story of Robin is based heavily on Batman: _Dark Victory_ (1999) and _Robin_ (1993) Annual #4
> 
> There is at least one version of the Flying Graysons’ death where there was a net, but it was also sabotaged. Fuck if I can find it, though.   
> Rose grew up in the Snap Palace, a Cambodian brothel run by her mother— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #2  
> The duffel bag incident (aka the bag o’ heads)— _Batman_ (1940) #635  
> The soles of Batman’s boots have little bats on them— _Batman_ (1940) #635  
> Jason’s Injuries — _Batman_ (1940) Annual #25  
> “Batman lies but Robins don’t lie to each other”— _Grayson_ (2012) #12  
> Zitka saved Dick by pulling him out from under the burning big top— _Nightwing_ (1996) #88  
> The Graysons fell fifty feet— _Nightwing_ (2016) #32  
> “Don’t look, Kid...”— _Robin_ (1993) Annual #4  
> The circus is family— Flashpoint: _Deadman and the Flying Graysons_ (2011) #1, Robin (1993) Annual #4  
> “Everyone in the circus is all anyone in the circus has” — _Nightwing_ (1996) #100  
> “A strike against one is a strike against all.” — _Nightwing_ (1996) #88  
> Robin is family— _Grayson_ (2012) #15  
> Mary Grayson spent time in Paris as a child— _Nightwing_ (2016) #8  
> Dick attacking the Joker— Joker: _Last Laugh_ (2001) #6  
> Dick returning to Haly’s— _The New Titans_ (1988) #60
> 
> Note that in the comics, he doesn’t return because of Jay’s death, but Jay’s death was a large factor in his choice. 
> 
> Bruce punched Dick and threw him out after Jay’s death— _The New Titans_ (1988) #55
> 
> There is nothing that says that Bruce knocked out a tooth when he punched Dick. Dick was, however, on crutches and Bruce was still wearing his gauntlets.
> 
> " _Oda dženo mardo, so ačiľa čoro, oda mek goreder, so hino korkoro_."
> 
> Hübschmannová, M. (2002, September). Famel’ija (Family). Retrieved from http://rombase.uni-graz.at/cgi-bin/art.cgi?src=data/ethn/social/family.en.xml


	10. New Constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There's no walls and no ceilings as far as I know, just the echoes of scars and the unbeaten road—_   
>  _I will run wherever I want to go._
> 
> _You can call me crazy, 'cause I never learned to stop loving fire, because I got burned._  
>  _It's just hard to believe that it's wrong to want more than the truest of blue, and a love like a roar._  
> 

* * *

### August 4th | 3p

Dick lay face-down on the bunk room's floor, sluggish, and glared at the insides of his eyelids.

He was—thankfully—on his last day of the enforced narcotic regimen. By this time tomorrow, he might be uncomfortable, but at least he wouldn’t feel so mentally clouded. The summer humidity and heat weren’t helping with Dick’s mushy brain, dog days in full-swing. A fan near the open window provided a nice breeze, even if it didn’t cool the room, and chased away the fumes of Rose’s nail polish. 

"Want me to do yours?" she asked, wiggling the bottle.

"I'm good, thanks," he muttered into the braided rug.

Catchy top-40 floated from her laptop, music Dick didn’t remotely recognize. It was completely normal, an _exceedingly_ normal activity for an eighteen-year-old girl: hanging out with friends while listening to pop music and painting nails. It felt like a twilight zone.

"Is there any reason that you're hiding in here—aside from desiring my lovely company, of course."

He thought about denying the accusation for a split-second, then disregarded the idea. They both knew that he was absolutely skulking.

"The company is a very alluring attraction, but I want to punch your dad in his dumb face."

Perhaps Dick’s words had been unkind, but he wasn’t about to apologize, not with what Slade said about Joker. _That insufferable ass of a_ —. Dick’s molars creaked as they ground together. Forcibly relaxing his jaw, he turned his head to rest on a cheek and idly watch Rose, lest his mind get caught in cranky loops.

"Dad really does inspire that sometimes." She laughed, finishing off a big toe with a deft flick and started on her other foot. "Lovers' quarrels are the worst, but you'll kiss and make up, I'm sure."

Dick wheezed, momentarily grateful for the heavy drugs. "Rose, we're not dating."

"Oh?" She looked up and tipped her head, considering. "So you’re just fucking? Now that I say it out loud, it _does_ make more sense."

The floor rudely refused to swallow him. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation. I am not sleeping with your dad, nor have I ever slept with him."

It didn’t matter that they almost had sex, _because it didn't happen_. Nothing was _going_ to happen for some time, given the state of Dick’s ribs.

"Oh shit.” She backpedaled. “I kinda assumed you were gay because of the astronomical sexual tension. Dad and Wintergreen have had their weird, co-dependent _thing_ as long as I've known them, so it wouldn't shock me if he were with another man."

That made Dick huff a small laugh, and he mentally thanked Wintergreen again. Rose wasn't around for his teenage years. As for Slade and Randy? Yeah, he'd bet money that they'd hooked up when they were young.

"Despite my very public dating history, you would not be the first to assume that Nightwing was gay."

"Yeah, well, running around in a skin-tight suit and general flamboyant flirting has that effect," she muttered under her breath.

Nobody would think that Richie Grayson was gay, not with the way he flirted with women. Everyone just assumed he was straight; it was an act. Dick had always been bi—always knew it, too.

"I like men and women,” he clarified. “I'm not in the closet, but it's not widely known, either. The vigilante community is very at-ease with sexuality; when you're regularly in contact with aliens, metahumans, and magical beings, liking the same sex is not high up on the 'weird' list. I mean, Kori wasn't even _human_."

"That's...actually a pretty good point," Rose conceded.

"Most vigilantes won’t even blink if someone is gay or straight, unless it’s contrary to their reputation."

She snorted as she rifled through her bag, choosing a color for her fingernails.

"You mean that people _might_ be surprised if they found out that Deathstroke played for both teams?"

The double entendre was probably unintentional, but he grinned in appreciation all the same. 

"Yeah, that would be a shock." Hell, Dick himself had been duped. "But, seriously, how did you know about your dad?"

Comparatively, Dick had spent far more time around Slade—had _studied_ Deathstroke—and didn’t detect a single sign which indicated that the mercenary was less-than-straight.

Rose settled on a deep crimson. "I wasn't joking about the astronomical tension." She arched an eyebrow and whacked the bottle. "But, I totally asked Wintergreen, and he confirmed that dad’s hooked up with guys, if infrequently."

Dick watched Rose’s careful, precise strokes. It felt like it took _eons_ to wade through the soupy mess of his mind, stringing together a coherent thought. 

"Rose?" She made a noise. "Why wasn't your first assumption that we were sleeping together?"

She gave him an exasperated look. “Do you know how many people know about this place? Dad could have dropped you at any of his safehouses between Jersey and Vermont—he was _comfortable_ around you. In what company is _Deathstroke_ comfortable?"

There was Randy...that list began and ended with Wintergreen.

"He's caught some sort of feels."

_Slade Wilson_ catching feels? That seemed about as likely as Bruce giving an unsolicited hug or saying “good job”.

"Usually, you don't pick fights with someone who’s caught your interest, unless you're _eight_ ," Dick said scathingly.

“It’s _Dad_. I’m pretty sure he’d light on fire if he tried to express emotion normally.” Rose started a second coat with an eye-roll. "Besides, you're giving him way too much credit; I doubt that he's aware of what he's feeling." She dabbed at a splotch with a tissue. "So, do you have a thing for him?"

Dick laid on the rug—listening to the _whir_ of the fan and Rose humming along with jaunty salsa piano—and quietly panicked.

The physical component was a non-issue; Slade was unquestionably attractive and they had some sort of connection. Touch was just one more way of communicating, connecting with another person: it didn't have to be romantic. He and Slade could’ve had sex, because they trusted each other enough, there was attraction, and it felt good. Dick wanted a distraction; Slade wanted pleasure. It wasn't rocket science. But love?

Dick had dated Babs—before they decided that they were better as friends—and Kori, which ended badly. He'd messed around with Roy and Wally, but he'd never _crushed_ on a dude—he'd certainly never _dated_ a guy. Dick wasn’t even sure if attraction would feel the same; physical experiences were different, after all. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, picking through his thoughts and examining them from all sides.

Nowhere was the heady mix of nerves and excitement he'd felt around his girlfriends. Slade's voice on the other end of the line made his spirits soar, but his stomach didn't flip-flop; the reaction was just because it was a relief, a distraction from life. Dick sunk into memories of the hours they'd spent on the phone over the past three months: they were warm and soft, a gentle balm on his heart.

He and Slade met only a few times, but those memories, too, were warm. Dick smiled, recalling resting his head on Slade's shoulder as the mercenary talked about Central America and they watched the sun rise over the Atlantic. His sonorous voice was steady and unbreaking, set to the ocean lapping on the rocky shore. It had been a reprieve, a handful of minutes with serene peace.

In deference to the midsummer weather, Slade wore a simple t-shirt under his blazer, the latter discarded during their initial tumble. The shirt was soft on Dick's cheek, gun oil and aftershave clinging like cologne. The mercenary positively dwarfed him, a formidable man in every sense of the word. Wrapped in Slade’s arms, he felt... _safe_.

" _Oh_."

A vice closed around his heart. Dick’s eyes flashed open, and tears pooled in their corners as the enormity of it all crashed into him.

He felt accepted despite their differences—it was not conditional, Slade wasn't one to judge. He felt understood. He felt _respected_ ; Slade respected his personal space, his abilities, his skill, his experiences, his opinions, his body. He felt cherished—

That last realization sent a wave of something close to nausea rolling in Dick’s stomach. For such a rough man, Slade's touches were gentle, and every action carried deliberate intent. Dick wasn't a burden or a failure or an obligation: Slade _wanted_ to do those things, because the mercenary was the sort of man who did exactly what he pleased, and nothing more.

Dick felt cherished, valued, wanted. He felt _loved_.

It _hurt_ , the sensation that reached the pit of his stomach—not the oozing rot, but a soul-deep _ache_. Dick had unwittingly craved this kind of love for years, growing thin on the scraps of affection he'd aggressively carved from anywhere they could be found. Now, he had three meals a day.

"'Wing?"

Rose sounded concerned.

Much to his surprise, Dick found that there were tears gently rolling down his cheeks. Blinking them back, he pushed himself upright, and motioned Rose closer. She slid across the floor to settle between his legs, and Dick pressed his face into the crook of her neck.

"Red Hood," he croaked, "likes his profanities and his Brownings and his leather jacket, but don't let those fool you; he's a man of letters."

It wasn’t anything like Babs or Kori, it wasn’t storybook attraction. Dick just wanted to _be_ with Slade.

"Once, Hood told me that it was bullshit to think of friendship and romance as being different. He said that they’re just variations of the same love, the same desire to be close."

They’d never been _in_ love, he and Jay, but maybe their friendship could have grown to become love, had Bruce not returned.

Rose tipped her head back to rest on Dick’s shoulder. "I kinda want to meet this guy, even if I'm not interested in a night job. He sounds like quite the character."

"Hood's one of a kind," he said softly.

They sat without speaking, Rose letting Dick hold her while gently running his fingers through her hair. He wandered through happy memories of Jason, the bluster and bite and mechanical vocoder. Jay had been harsh and cruel at first...Dick's mind ground to a halt, mocking laughter of the hood ringing in his ears. Jay had been harsh and cruel and verbally merciless because—

"He's _afraid_ ," Dick said, face going slack in shock.

Rose twisted to look at him in confusion. "What?"

"Slade’s afraid. He's _trying_ to make me angry; he's trying to make me hate him. He knows exactly where to sink a knife and _twist_ to make me furious."

Words poured from Dick’s mouth. "He hasn't acted like this at all in the past three months. We banter and tease, sometimes even debate, but he hasn't done anything like he did yesterday. He only started aggressively being a jackass since we came here, because it _meant_ something, and that scared him."

" _Shit_."

"Shit," he agreed.

“What are you going to do?”

Dick hugged her tight and grinned wickedly. “I’m going to kill ‘em with kindness.”

* * *

### August 6th | 10a

The day after Rose departed, Slade left the house before dawn.

Richard wasn’t horrible company, per say, but he was emotionally _loud_ ; he disrupted Slade’s orders and rhythms. After that flare of anger, when Slade had told him the plain truth about Joker, Grayson had kept himself contained. In fact, he was positively _friendly_. It made Slade’s head hurt, Richard’s deviation from natural order: confused and aggravated him. The mercenary needed space to clear his mind, and fortunately, there was space in abundance.

Usually, when he came to Vermont for any extended period, he’d go deer hunting. Some modern hunters used blinds, but in Slade’s opinion, that was no way to hunt animals. It took time to find the _right_ deer, a buck old enough to mate, but that only made the process more engaging.

Surrendering to muscle memory, to instinct was the closest thing he ever felt to a calm center. The world quieted down to the sound of his prey, the woods around him: every bird call, broken twig, rustle of dry leaves, the heartbeats of smaller creatures, his own movement. Slade inhaled, smelling pine and musty detritus, decay and life, at once hyper-aware and not present.

Sighting down his rifle was as easy and natural as breathing. He was deep within himself, only half-conscious when he pulled the trigger. Birds leapt into flight at the _crack_ of the shot. In the beat of ensuing silence, Slade slowly lowered his gun, mind still surrendered to his body. The animal was dead, but a hunt didn’t end with the kill.

Most people didn’t hunt in August for good reason, aside from the fact that it wasn’t deer hunting season and therefore illegal: meat spoiled incredibly quickly. This was not a problem for Slade Wilson. There was not another soul for miles this far in the backcountry—Slade could let himself _go—_ push his body without fear of having the limits of his ability known.

The mercenary could sprint on par with a speedster if necessary, but his “standard” miles were an easy four minutes: adding a hundred-thirty pound deer across his shoulders and a rifle on his back made a thrilling challenge. Slade grinned widely as his boots beat a path through the woods, ducking beneath branches and leaping over fallen logs. Thinking would mean hesitation, and hesitation could mean a twisted ankle. This was pure movement.

Just before he arrived back at the safehouse, he restrained himself, but didn’t fight the smile on his face or buzz in his veins. It was at a pleasing lope that Slade reappeared in the homestead’s clearing, and ambled to the area behind the garage specifically constructed for this purpose.

He’d learned how to dress small animals at four and deer at seven—this process, too, was so ingrained that thought proved unnecessary. Thought _was_ unnecessary, at least, until he heard Wintergreen call from the house.

“Grayson, I wouldn’t go back there!”

“Why, is there going to be a corpse? I don’t think that Slade would stash a mark’s body behind the garage.”

Slade’s eye twitched. He was _decidedly_ pulled out of his quiet space. For all the gruesome things Grayson had undoubtedly witnessed in Gotham, he was likely the kind to get squeamish over a poor, dead animal. The mercenary scoffed as he finished hosing the carcass (and himself) down, in preparation for carving.

Richard rounded the corner of the garage. He had two tall glasses in his hands and a smile on his face.

“It’s just a deer, Randy!” the bird called over his shoulder.

“Hey. It’s hotter than hades, and Wintergreen said that you’d been out since before dawn. I figured you might want something cold.”

The temptation to slap Grayson upside the head was strong, but he restrained himself, and stripped off his gloves to accept a glass. He didn’t acknowledge the bird’s presence beyond a hearty glare. The drink hit his tongue, bright and crisp: ice-cold mint water. Billy had never made such a thing, so it must have been Grayson’s doing. It _was_ wonderfully refreshing, Slade admitted to himself begrudgingly. After a few long sips, he placed his glass on the nearby workbench and returned to the deer, hoping it would chase Grayson away.

Of course, it _didn’t_ : Richard just leaned against the bench and watched the mercenary work. He didn’t even remark upon the dead animal.

“I’m surprised this doesn’t offend your delicate sensibilities,” Slade sneered.

The bird looked at him curiously, and tipped his head sideward. “What do you think the lions ate?”

“Meat, _obviously_ , but there’s a difference.”

“Lions need to feed on whole carcasses. Mostly, they had livestock carcasses from the cold trailer, but once or twice when we were between venues and supply dried up, Annie went hunting.”

Slade laid a cut in the cooler by his feet and considered his next slice.

“I suppose that makes sense. I didn’t think modern circuses had sharpshooters.”

“Generally they don’t, and they don’t have animal acts either, but part of Haly’s marketing was the ‘Old World’ feel. We were allowed to keep animals because we were very transparent about their care.”

When Slade didn’t respond, they lapsed into silence, which he foolishly hoped would last.

“Do you still have the kidneys?”

He glanced up from carving out the tenderloin. “What?”

Grayson eyed the carcass critically.

“The kidneys, that’s where the suet is—what do you usually do with it?”

“Usually? Nothing.” He frowned. “It’s not exactly good eating.”

Unlike beef cracklings or lard, deer fat was not _remotely_ tasty.

“Swinging around every night is brutal on your lips, and I prefer mine uncracked. My parents used plain Crisco—nothing beats animal fat.” Grayson pulled an unmarked lip balm tube from his pocket. “I make it myself: beeswax, lard, and essential oil. Suet can be rendered into tallow for the same purpose.”

It wasn’t difficult, but it wasn’t pleasant either, and the resulting product would likely have a funny flavor. Grayson clearly knew what he was doing, though. Slade shrugged—all the power to him.

“Lucky for you, I didn’t field dress it.” Slade nudged the bucket of viscera with his foot. “If you want the kidneys, have at them.”

“Thanks!” Richard glanced at the burning pile, a safe distance off from the garage. “Do you care if I build a fire?”

It was hot, humid, and Grayson was seriously proposing to work over an open fire?

“Uh, no.”

He looked at the mercenary in disbelief. “What, did you think that I planned on doing this in the _house_? God, it would be awful.”

Slade stared after the odd bird as he strolled back to the safehouse. Grayson returned a few minutes later in a Nightwing uniform sans domino, casually flipping a nasty looking combat knife in one hand and carrying two containers pilfered from the recycling bin in the other. Without further ado, he fished the organs from the bucket, and set to work at the bench.

Broken ribs without serious analgesia weren’t enough to stop Richard’s chattering. Though, this time, Slade’s eye didn’t twitch when he began speaking.

“Generally, Annie would bring the whole creature, still warm—after she dug out the bullet, of course. It would be an absolute _mess_ to clean afterwards, but the lions always seemed pretty happy.”

From firsthand experience, the mercenary knew that Grayson was both an excellent marksman and harbored a hatred of firearms. Now knowing that Haly’s had a sharpshooter, Slade wondered if this was yet another skill trained from youth.

“Could you shoot before you went to the Bat?”

“I’d just started a few months before. Dad and Daj weren’t keen on me using guns, but I wanted to learn. I loved plinking.” Richard carved the fat into small chunks, dropping it into the container, trying to sort out any contaminants. “How long have you been hunting?” After a beat, he amended: “ _animals_ , to be clear.”

Slade couldn't help but crack a grin at the dark joke.

“I was born in the mountains of Kentucky. How long do you _think_ I’ve been hunting?”

“That’s a stereotype, Slade,” he said archly. “Stereotypes are harmful and frequently untrue.”

The mercenary clicked his tongue and rolled his eye. “Sometimes they’re completely true.”

Grayson planted a hand on his cocked hip and glared at Slade. “Are you saying that you _did_ hunt possum at six and ran around barefoot?”

Slade turned to face the bird. “ _Christ_ , Grayson—I wore shoes while I was hunting: I was six, not _stupid_.”

Richard laughed, bright and clear, then yelped, wrapping an arm around his middle.

“Ow— _sugar._ ”

Slade chuckled.

“ _Jackass_ ,” Grayson hissed.

Slade chuckled harder, and grinned crookedly at the bird’s sour expression. “You don’t hunt possum, Boy—you _trap_ possum, need a good dog.”

“Huh.” Richard’s annoyance shifted into something thoughtful. “You must’ve had a wicked accent.”

“ _Wicked_ accent,” he scoffed. “I did, and before you ask— _no_.”

“Are you going to call me a filthy Yankee again?”

Grayson leaned an elbow on the workbench, eyes now glittering in amusement. There was a smear of blood where he’d tried to brush his hair out of his face. It was far more attractive than it had any right to be.

“It’s technically untrue. However, New Jersey is a godless place. I’m fairly certain Gotham has three-headed sewer rats and drinking water permanently contaminated by Joker venom."

"Three-headed sewer rats?" Richard blinked. "I don't believe they exist."

* * *

Grayson returned to the house shortly before six. He smelled strongly of wood smoke and sweat, not necessarily a bad combination.

“Everything is set to rights outside, tallow is in the garage freezer. Thank you.”

Slade was thrown by seeing him in uniform, mask-less and bootless. Richard didn’t seem phased by a lack of response and smoothly drifted towards the stairs.

“Let me catch a quick shower and I’ll be down to help with dinner, Randy.”

Wintergreen tipped his head in acknowledgement. “That’s a good lad.”

The bird headed to the loft and Slade set back to his work. He pulled up the most recent surveillance photos of Rose; she’d safely returned to her mother’s family in Minneapolis.

Grayson poked his head back in the main room. He was very distractingly wrapped only in a towel, though Slade was pleased to note that most of his bruising had yellowed. The mercenary forced himself to look at the laptop.

“Hey Randy, do you have the plastic wrap?”

Grayson sidled up behind Slade while he waited for Billy to pull out the wrap. Slade glared at Richard while he sipped his coffee. The bastard just smiled and looked at the pictures of Rose on the computer screen.

“You could be closer with Rose and Joey, but you’re too afraid,” Richard tossed out casually. “They’ll always be your kids, but they’re not children anymore, and you don’t need to protect them as if they are.”

Mug half-way to the counter, Slade stared at him, open-mouthed. Wintergreen slid the plastic across the island.

“Thanks.” He tapped the roll to his forehead in salute before turning to Slade. “I think they’d like to have a dad in their lives—your relationships are far from broken beyond repair. Grant’s gone, but Rose and Joey aren’t.”

The sheer _audacity_ —

“If they die tomorrow, you’d do anything to have one more day to spend with them. Yeah, you might get burned, but I’ve already told you,” Richard looked Slade square in the eye, stare heavy with the weight of experience, “it was worth it. Besides, what’s the point of living if you haven’t got anyone else? Are you even living?”

Breaking the weighty stare with a lighthearted shrug, the bird waltzed back upstairs. Slade stared, gaping, after him.

Billy snorted. “Given your remarks about Joker, I’m surprised it took him this _long_ to go for your throat.”

Slade muttered curses at the damn Brit under his breath, shoved Grayson’s words out of his mind, and returned to the photographs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary from “New Constellations” by Ryn Weaver
> 
> Very [ _it’s about the cones_ ] voice: “It’s about the italic ‘Oh’.”
> 
> Plinking— Casual and informal target shooting. 
> 
> "Annie"— The stage name for Haly's sharpshooter, a reference to Annie Oakley. I don't recall any version of the circus, in the comics, having a marksman. 
> 
> So this is very tangential, but I just have to mention that the subtext in The Judas Contract about Slade and Wintergreen is **_not_** subtle. 
> 
> “He would light on fire…”— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #4
> 
> Slade is not judgmental— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #3, #24
> 
> “Friendship and love are just two different versions…”— _Red Hood and the Outlaws_ (2011) #6
> 
> Jay was a good student— _Batman_ (1940) Annual #12
> 
> Jay liked theater— _Batman_ (1940) Annual #12
> 
> ~~  
> _BABY PULL ME CLOSER IN THE BACK SEAT OF YOUR ROVER_  
> ~~  
>  ~~That's so sad. Alexa, play Despacito.~~


	11. Fearful Symmetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future; every loser gotta win, and every winner gotta lose someday—they say it's just a matter of time.
> 
> If I had my way, then you would be mine.

### August 7th | 10a

Slade sat at the workbench in the Armory, deconstructing his favorite sniper. It was a complex weapon, and the required precision forced his hands to be slow, methodical. The intent of the task was to counterbalance the irritation brewing in his mind—it was not proving effective. The rifle sat in pieces before Slade, laid out in perfect order, and his thoughts churned.

Richard wasn’t _wrong_ when he said that Rose and Joseph were no longer children. The mercenary knew that they were both capable and well-trained young adults. Both had field experience, too: Joseph with the Titans and Rose with gang violence and a small handful of contracts. Of course, _she_ didn’t know that Slade was completely aware of her summer vacation activities, but that was neither here nor there.

He couldn’t damage Rose like he’d undoubtedly harmed Grant and Joseph. She’d spent the second half of her childhood in a large, loving family. Lilian’s people had raised her right; Rose grew into a strong young woman. However, she carried increased risk—Addie wasn’t yet aware of her existence, and Hell hath no fury like his ex-wife.

Associating with _either_ of his children would only put them in danger, and yet...the mercenary's mind was dragged back to Rose’s final night at the safehouse.

> Slade was woken at zero-stupid-thirty by a strangled shout.
> 
> In an instant, he’d rolled to check the tablet on the nightstand. There were no breach notifications—an alarm would have sounded—so he pulled up the security feeds from the various rooms around the safehouse.
> 
> Billy crouched aside his own bed, tablet in one hand and his sidearm in the other. In the bunk room, Grayson sat bolt-upright, panting. Rose leaned over the top bunk. Slade tapped the com.
> 
> “All-secure, Billy,” he said quietly, “just Grayson.”
> 
> “To be expected, considering the week that he’s had,” Wintergreen’s voice filtered back. “I’m surprised he didn’t find a way to sleep in the basement.”
> 
> “He’s smart enough to know that if he fell off the table in Medical, he’d probably puncture a lung. I’ll keep an ear open; you go back to sleep.”
> 
> Slade settled himself into the armchair in the corner of the master bedroom and flipped on the camera’s audio. Rose bounced from the dresser back to the lower bunk, two plushies in hand.
> 
> Richard smiled fondly. “You still have these, and they’re in your go-bag for the apocalypse?”
> 
> “ _Duh_. Now, do you want Nightwing or Deathstroke?”
> 
> She held out the two stuffed toys. Grayson shook his head but indulged her.
> 
> “I’ll take Deathstroke; I’d feel silly holding a plush of myself.”
> 
> Rose wormed her way to sit so that her back was to Richard’s chest. Richard curled around her, “Deathstroke” held in front of them both. She hugged Nightwing to her chest, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
> 
> “ _Back when all things were beautiful, Best Beloved,_ ” Rose began, “ _the Leopard lived in a place called the High Veldt_.”
> 
> “ _How the Leopard Got His Spots_?” Grayson smiled wistfully. “Some things never change, do they?”
> 
> Slade’s precious flower grinned over her shoulder. “The Leopard and the Ethiopian did.”
> 
> She nudged him gently.
> 
> “You know how this works, ‘Wing: talk first, then story time.”
> 
> He sighed and rested his forehead on the back of her neck.
> 
> “I might have trained you too well.”
> 
> Slade watched as Grayson stutteringly recalled his nightmare, coaxed and prodded by Rose.
> 
> The mercenary had always known that Richard was far more than a teacher, but he’d rarely witnessed it. During the year that Nightwing lived with Rose and Billy, Slade was purposefully absent; the less time he spent around his daughter, the safer she was.
> 
> Despite being barely a man, Richard took to _raising_ Rose—something that the mercenary didn’t foresee. Grayson wasn’t quite a father to her, but he was something close. In some respects, he was more of a father to Rose than Slade.
> 
> Jealousy reared up in Slade’s heart, the feeling that something priceless had been stolen from him. A positively ancient voice _instantly_ berated him for being ungrateful and covetous. He cringed shamefully. The fact that he had Rose was a blessing greater than gold, never mind that she was safe and healthy. How _dare_ he begrudge her happiness?

Slade leaned on his elbow, torn. He...wanted his daughter—of course he did; she was his _child_. Yet, it was _covetous_. To desire was human, to covet was _sin_ : they were not the same. To desire excessively, to desire at the expense of others, to the extent that it clouded the heart—that was coveting.

Soft feet padded down the stairs and stopped at the entrance to the Armory, interrupting his internal debate.

“You good?”

Slade didn’t look up, and began efficiently reassembling the rifle. “Eff off, Grayson.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘ _no_ ’.”

He leaned against the doorway, standing _directly_ in the mercenary’s blind spot. Grayson posed no threat, but it made Slade’s skin crawl on principle.

“Seriously, what’s bothering you?”

“You are,” Slade snapped.

“ _Har har_ , I walked into that one.”

Normally, the mercenary could easily ignore someone until the second coming—what did he care if they wasted their time—but Grayson’s presence was like a weight. Slade couldn’t shake the feeling of the bird’s gaze, which _completely_ defeated the purpose of field-stripping the sniper, and irritation rose in him like a tide. He wanted Grayson to _go away_.

“Being around Rose or Joseph puts them in unnecessary risk,” Slade growled. “You would’ve never put _Damian_ in unnecessary danger.”

The ensuing stony silence resonated like a well-landed blow. Richard’s gaze shifted to the armor cases which lined the back wall. He considered them, arms now crossed, face carefully blank. Slade completely rebuilt the entire trigger assembly before Grayson spoke.

“Before B fired me, we fought like cats and dogs,” he said evenly. “I wanted independence, freedom: being around him was _suffocating_. Everything had to be done his way, when he wanted it—and I’ve never taken well to confinement.”

Slade snorted as he slid the chamber, barrel, and barrel tube into place; Richard took to confinement like a fish took to breathing air.

“B drove me, and others, from his side because he makes choices _for_ people. An adult decides their own fate: my life, my choice; **_I_** judge risks and responsibilities,” Richard said with fervency.

“Rose is eighteen and Joey is twenty-two. They’re old enough to decide if they want to take on the risk of associating with someone whose job involves a mask. Don’t be like Bruce, Slade—don’t take that choice from them.”

The bench creaked under the strain of Slade’s grip, and he forced himself to relax, reaching out to begin the delicate bolt carrier mechanism. He sure as shit didn’t want to be anything like _Bruce Wayne_ , but it wasn’t so easy.

“It is not a choice that _you_ will ever have to make,” the mercenary snarled.

For a blissful moment, Grayson was silent, but it was only a moment.

“I won’t, but I’ve had to make similar choices.”

His next words didn’t contain a single trace of the expected vitriol or anger. Richard closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

“Days after B’s funeral, Tim told me that Bruce wasn’t dead. I thought to myself: ‘shit, Timmy’s snapped.’ We’d run genetic verification on the bones, we’d _carried his casket_.”

Months ago, Richard had mentioned that Wayne was caught in some time-space SNAFU, but never elaborated upon how the bastard made his way back to Gotham. A crack-pot theory from a boy barely old enough to shave was not high on Slade’s list of potential Bat-recovery methods.

“I didn’t have a single doubt that Bruce was dead, but we all grieve differently. If that was how Tim needed to process the loss, I couldn’t stand in his way. So I said: ‘Alright, Tim. You’re the man with the plan. What’s your plan?’.”

The rifle sat, reconstructed and forgotten, Slade’s full attention on Richard. Grayson made a small, hollow noise and pressed the heel of his palm into an eye.

“He was my baby brother. My first act as his guardian was to _help_ him set out—alone—on an international manhunt where he cut deals with the likes of _Ra’s_ , apparently got chased by assassins, and god knows what else because he rarely talks about those months.”

Richard stared at his feet and continued quietly.

“What I do know is that once Tim rescued Bruce _and_ foiled Ra’s attempt to take over Wayne Enterprises, he tried to kill himself. He tried to kill himself and make it look like a _very_ believable accident. Yeah, I caught him before he hit the ground—literally—but I damn near didn’t.”

Old, choking fear was nearly palpable in the bird’s voice: _daj slid through my fingers_.

“Tim isn’t my son, but he is my little brother whom I helped raise. I had to let him put himself in a hell of a lot of danger—to make that _choice_ , Slade—and it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

He sighed. “Randy wants to know where you put the Earl Grey.”

“What?” Slade blinked, caught in topical whiplash.

“Randy wants to know where you put the Earl Grey tea, that’s why I came downstairs.”

“Cabinet next to the sink, second shelf, towards the back,” the mercenary said absently.

“Thanks.”

Richard turned to walk back to the kitchen. “Don’t waste today, because tomorrow the chance might be gone forever.”

Grayson paused at the base of the stairs and looked over his shoulder, an infinitely sad expression on his face.

“You are not selfish for wanting your children. Take it from someone who’s lived it: Rose and Joey want you, too.”

In a daze, he listened as the bird’s footsteps retreated upstairs. The sound of the basement door clicking shut was faint, but hit his frayed nerves like a whip-crack. Slade calmly reached over, pulled the Armory’s door closed, then screamed.

_Goddamn Richard Grayson_. Damn Grayson, and damn him for being _right_. Slade would do just about anything for one more day with Grant, Hell, to just _hold_ the boy one more time. The mere thought of losing Rose or Joseph froze his heart. _Maybe_ Grayson had a point about Rose, but Joseph? It was Slade’s fault that his son was maimed.

Tiredly, he rested his forehead on the edge of the bench, gazing blankly at the floor beneath it. A case caught his eye, pressed against the wall and covered in dust. Though it might appear no different from the numerous other cases in the caged-off Armory, it didn’t contain a weapon—rather, it held a violin.

Maybe it was the extended time he was spending at this safehouse, the place where he stored the few material vestiges of his past. Maybe it was due to the fact that he wasn’t bouncing from one contract to the next without pause. Maybe it was the memory of Robin’s—Damian Al Ghul-Wayne’s—face as the boy poured himself into Vivaldi. Maybe it was all of these things that led to Slade crouching down and wiping the dust from the heavy, black case.

The mercenary racked his sniper, clearing space for the instrument on the workbench. Flipping its stiff and creaky latches, he opened the case. There the violin sat, nestled in faded red flannel, pristine as the day he’d packed it away, over thirty years prior.

As a new recruit, Slade quickly learned that the way he spoke was cause for derision. It didn’t matter that he could outshoot most of the officers—the second he said anything beyond ‘Yes, Sir’ or ‘No, Sir’, he’d be labeled a “dumb inbred hick” who “couldn’t even speak English”. His easy proficiency and adaptation actually made the abuse _worse_.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with how he talked— _everyone else_ sounded odd to his ears. It infuriated a younger Slade, who’d raised sand about it on more than one occasion; the Lord made each person as they ought to be. Of course, his anger and firm religious beliefs didn’t help his reputation, further confirming prejudiced stereotypes in the minds of his commanding officers and fellow enlistees.

Slade eventually realized that he’d be held back or passed over unless he managed to assimilate. There was little he could do to hide his molasses-thick accent and distinct regional dialect, changing those would take time, and he would not be led astray from God’s law. The most immediate action he could take was to keep his head and do away with anything that further played into stereotypes.

After Basic, when his personal effects were returned, it was with no small sadness in his heart that Slade sent his violin into storage. He didn’t play _violin_ like the soldiers in the Army Band. His teacher—the local druggist whose repertoire consisted entirely of hymns and folk songs—would rave if called a _violinist_. Slade had no desire to play stuffy violin, and would rather give it up entirely than betray himself.

This instrument had been an extension of his hand, just as his sidearm and rifle had become. He’d played near daily for five years, mostly after work or school, in the back of Mr. Wheaton’s shop. He hadn’t re-opened the case until this present moment. Now, hesitantly, Slade unclasped the bow from the lid and held it up to the light.

Shockingly, its hair was undamaged and the shaft was unwarped. Setting it aside, he lifted the violin and turned it over in his hands. There were no cracks in the body, the neck was as straight as it ever was. All things considered, it was in decent shape for an instrument constructed almost a century ago in the mountains of Kentucky.

He set the violin aside. With apprehension, Slade took the rosin from its home in the top compartment. He carefully slid the cake from its case—and was shockingly pleased to find it mostly in one piece. It was dry, he scraped at it gently with a knife, but still usable. The mercenary vaguely recalled the chemist saying something about using moonshine to revive old cakes, but for now, the resin suited his purpose.

The strings unquestionably needed to be replaced; he’d strung it with gut to avoid the danger of rust while it sat in storage. Luckily, there were a few sealed packages tucked in the case. Setting the violin before him, Slade replaced one string at a time, threading fresh steel through the pegs. This wasn’t about thinking, much in the same way that deer hunting wasn’t about thinking. With each string, his mind narrowed to the task at hand, easing away from the raging conflict brought on by Richard’s meddlesome prodding.

Propping the instrument against his chest, Slade drew the bow across a string. ESI certainly hadn’t intended to give him perfect pitch, but the experiment had, all the same. He tweaked a fine-tuner until the sound rang true, then repeated the action for the next string. The whole process was somewhat disorienting: every act was burned into his mind, but his body didn’t match his memory. The last time he’d held the instrument, his hands had been _much_ smaller.

Yet, it felt like...the same kind of familiar comfort he felt when gripping his sword. Slade wasn’t sure what he’d intended to do when he’d started maintaining the violin, but since he’d gone through the trouble, it couldn’t hurt anything to try a song or two. He set bow to strings, and abruptly found himself at a loss; it had been so long, Slade couldn’t recall _how_ to begin. With sure swiftness, he felt Mr. Wheaton cuff him upside the head like a phantom pain.

“ _Boy, you’re thinkin’ too hard. There tisn’t a correct answer: do wha’ **feels** right, play what feels right._”

So, Slade didn’t think; he moved. _The Eagle’s Whistle_ , one of the first tunes he’d learned, came back purely on muscle memory. It was a versatile song, played as everything from a march to a lullaby, but he’d learned it as a waltz. It was easy to bridge into _Bonaparte’s Retreat_ , and from there he was off and running.

When he floated back to the surface, forty minutes had passed. Closing the violin in its case, he felt more centered, less like he was drowning in his own thoughts. He’d forgotten exactly how _good_ it felt to play. Now, however, lunch sounded good.

At the workstation outside the Armory, Wintergreen sat working on his journals. He looked up when Slade keyed the door shut.

“I thought that might have belonged to Joey, though I only recall the lad playing piano.”

“No, it’s mine.”

“Christ, it’s been so long since you played _anything_. Pull it out after dinner, would you? It would make a nice end to the day.”

Billy, of course, was recalling Slade playing cello; the mercenary had acquired both the Englishman and the new instrument around the same time. He hadn’t touched it since the attempt on Joseph’s life. Fiddle, however, didn’t carry the same cursed weight.

The mercenary simply grunted, and Wintergreen returned to his work.

* * *

Slade didn’t play that night, but the next evening after dinner, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and retired to the screened-in back porch. Richard, curled on the other end of the bench, was engrossed in a book— _The Prince_ , in Italian.

Setting the violin to his chest, Slade began with an easy Georgia shuffle. He’d struggled with the pattern all those years ago, and thus practiced it until he could play it, even if he were half-dead.

The air was heavy and green; he could feel the late summer in his lungs. Slade let it guide his hand. _Short Trip Home_ wouldn’t be written for some twenty years after he first picked up a fiddle, but it felt _right_. He kept the tune slow, with a mellow slant.

Following that thread, the mercenary let himself be tugged towards spirituals, songs he recalled from starched Sunday mornings— _Come Thou Fount_. Each draw of the bow further untangled the knotted mess in his mind.

“ _Oh to grace, how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be. Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee_.” 

A quiet but warm tenor joined on the last verse, and Slade’s hand nearly skipped on the strings.

“ _Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the one I love: here’s my heart, oh take and seal it, seal it for the courts above_.”

He brought the bow down and looked at the little bird. “You can sing?”

“I’m full of surprises,” Richard shot back teasingly. “You can play violin?”

Slade’s lip quirked upwards. “Informally.”

“So, folk and gospel.” He grinned. “My knowledge isn’t vast, but it’s the same as biscuits: a varied and colorful life.”

The mercenary considered him for a moment. Setting the bow back to the strings, he began _Shady Grove_. Richard’s face lit up in recognition.

“ _Cheeks as red as a blooming rose, eyes of the prettiest brown, she’s the darling of my heart, sweetest little girl in town_!”

It was a tune as old as the hills, and a particular favorite of the druggist.

“ _Shady Grove, my little love, Shady Grove—I say! Shady Grove, my little love, I’m bound to go away._ ”

At its heart, fiddlin’ was a social activity, done for pleasure, the love of music; it wasn’t about becoming a master fiddler or playing complex, technical pieces. Slade had never been affable, but he took a shine to playing with the old-timers who would gather on the apothecary's porch on fair evenings.

It was a different porch, a thousand miles’ distance—and far different company—but it reminded him of those nights. Slade slid into that mental space like a worn glove. He grinned, catching the little bird’s eye, improvising a run between verse and chorus.

“ _When I was a little boy, I wanted a Barlow knife, and now I want little Shady Grove to be my wife. A kiss from little Shady Grove’s as sweet as brandy wine, and there ein’t no girl in this whole world that’s prettier than mine_.”

Richard practically radiated free-spirited joy, grinning back at Slade.

“ _Shady Grove, my little love, Shady Grove I say! Shady Grove my little love, I’m bound to go away._ ”

With one final run, Slade lowered his bow and eyed Grayson, who had an arm curled around his midsection.

“That can’t be pleasant.”

“It’s not,” Richard hissed, “but it’s better than scar tissue.” His face forcibly relaxed. “It’s also more fun than the usual physical therapy. I’m going to sit the next few out, but please, continue.”

Slade clicked his tongue, and gently pawed the back of Richard’s head. The little bird chuckled, curling on his side, cheek resting on the back of the bench. Letting his hand guide him once again, Slade started something calmer, and the strains of _Black is the Color_ carried into the night.

* * *

### August 11th | 8p

Slade leaned on the doorway between Medical and the laundry room, watching Grayson pull out the last stitches on his bicep.

The past few nights Slade had taken out his violin and sat with Richard on the back porch. The mercenary found himself less tense, slower to anger, and was of a mood to play with the little bird. Unfortunately, fighting was off the table—but there were alternatives.

“You’ve looked ready to crawl out of your skin all day.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so idle in my _life_ ,” Grayson said empathetically, leg jumping even as his hands remained steady.

Yes, he’d readily agree to Slade’s proposition.

“Can you dance?”

“Dance?” He snipped a suture. “I assume you mean the kind I learned for Bruce’s social events, not ‘I’m-undercover-at-a-club’ type, or the ‘swing-your-partner’ variety.”

Slade chuckled. “You’d like country swing, but the latter are both far too athletic for anything you should be doing.”

Grayson looked at him, dumbfounded. “You want to dance?”

“Any fighter can dance.” He shrugged. “We can’t spar, you can’t do anything more than basic practice at quarter-speed.”

After a moment’s consideration, Richard made a careless gesture.

“Aw, why not—it would beat sitting.”

He dumped the waste into the biohazard bin and quickly swabbed down the counter, following Slade to an empty patch of floor near the Armory. The mercenary triggered a concealed panel, revealing a stairway.

“I knew it!” Grayson crowed behind him as they descended the stairs. “I knew there had to be some sort of indoor training space.”

Lights, embedded in the tops of the walls, flickered on as they entered. It really could have been a bunker, an open space two-thirds the size of the basement above it. Half of the room had mats and padded walls, the other half wood floors and full-length mirrors. Richard gave off the energy of a kid in a candy shop when he saw the mats.

“Don’t even think about it,” Slade growled.

“Am I that obvious?” He laughed. “I’m not about to try anything—I can’t lay on my back yet; I don’t even want to _think_ about attempting a simple roll.”

He shuddered at the thought.

The mercenary snorted, moving to one side of the wood floor. “It’s refreshing that you can occasionally show some sense.”

Richard rolled his eyes. Conscious or not, he took up position opposite Slade, just out of striking rage.

“If it isn’t club or country, you’re probably considering some kind of ballroom.”

“Can you waltz?”

Slade watched him slide into a training headspace: body loose, but attention laser-focused.

“I’d say that I’m proficient at a slow waltz, leading or following.”

_Proficient_ —like the Bat allowed anything short of perfection.

“What do you know of the continental Viennese?”

Out of habit, the mercenary started to circle Grayson, and the man responded in kind.

“In Europe it’s simply referred to as ‘waltz’, it’s set at a hundred eighty beats per minute, and the base step is called a natural turn,” he rattled off, as if reporting. “I’ve never learned it.”

As Slade stalked towards the bird, the atmosphere shifted to something like the charged, dangerous air that always permeated their sparring matches. He stopped a half-pace from Richard.

“The lead and follow are mirrors of each other; if I step back, you step forward.”

He tucked both his hands in the small of his back.

“Can you run through the turn twice, at half-speed?”

It was a reasonable request; Slade obliged. Richard’s gaze fixed upon him like a hawk, intense. He kept a smile to himself, enjoying the little bird’s fire. A deft turn brought the mercenary back to where he began.

“We’ll begin with footwork only.”

Without a guiding hand, maintaining the correct rhythm and distance required careful balance: it was a game. Really, it was somewhat unfair—the exercise would be more appropriate for someone who already knew the natural turn—but life wasn’t fair so Slade wasn’t either. Besides, the little bird was sharp enough and never appreciated being coddled.

“Only one of the steps is a slide, Grayson; your foot should be coming off the floor.” Slade grinned smugly. “For once, I’m not going to try and sweep you.”

He snorted. “If I’m this far inside your range, I’m not going to be worried about a sweep—I’d already be screwed.”

_Step, step, turn_.

“You’d be screwed at any range, Little Bird.”

Richard shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. “I mean, if you’re offering.”

Bold little thing! He picked up the pace slightly, forcing Grayson to adjust.

“Your injuries can’t handle me,” Slade purred. “Ask me again when your ribs have healed more.”

_Step, step, turn_.

There was a dangerous glint to his eyes, and Richard’s voice was low when he said, “I’ll hold you to it.”

Oh yes—the mercenary was looking forward to that day.

“I hope you do,” Slade replied darkly.

Hoping to use the exchange as a distraction, he sprung the reverse turn. In a few spins, Richard adjusted smoothly.

“Nice try, Jackass.”

There was a wild edge to Richard’s features as they danced around the room, delighting in thwarting the mercenary’s every attempt to throw him off balance. Despite the ineffectiveness of his ploy, Slade found himself pleased by Grayson’s quick adaptation.

“Pause,” Slade called at the thirty-minute mark.

Keeping his left hand tucked in the small of his back, the mercenary lightly rested his right on Richard’s hip. The other man sucked in a breath, heart quickening. Slade withheld a frown; his hand was well below any broken ribs.

“Pain?”

He searched Richard’s face for any sign of discomfort.

“No—no. I’m alright.”

Instead of shrinking to pinpoints, black pupils swallowed blue irises—this wasn’t a _pain_ response. Only _then_ did it register that Grayson never put a shirt back on after taking out his stitches. Slade was hyper-aware of the warm, soft skin under his fingertips, the bare inches separating them.

“This is a half-closed hold,” he murmured. “It’s not used by any modern form of waltz, but I find it more elegant.” 

When Grayson didn’t move to mirror the hold, he clarified: “your right hand goes on my left shoulder.”

Hesitantly, Richard followed the instruction. Slade chuckled when his left hand instinctively came up in a guard position near his throat.

“On three.”

_Step, step, turn_.

A hundred-eighty beats would be far too fast for Grayson’s healing body. Slade cut it to ninety, the pace of a slow waltz. It made the task more challenging—going slowly was often more difficult than going quickly: it was harder to keep the steps smooth and fluid.

Yet, there was no stiffness or stumbling; their movement together was sinuous, perfect. The dangerous, violent undercurrent was swept away, replaced with something tremulous and vast. Slade had never _fit_ with someone like this, not even Addie.

_Step, step, turn_.

It wasn’t just their bodies, either, Slade realized. They were both dedicated to whatever they set their minds to, driven in their pursuits. They loved physicality, liked to be challenged. They both placed a high value on family. They were both unbending in their beliefs.

_Step, step, turn_.

Where they didn’t fit, they balanced each other.

Richard was outwardly emotional and affectionate, Slade was reserved.

Richard was unduly optimistic; Slade was realistic.

Richard was trusting, Slade was sensible.

_Step, step, turn_.

The little bird’s hand had drifted down from his throat to rest on Slade’s forearm. Richard looked up at Slade with a look of soft surprise, as if he too was shocked that they moved this way.

_Step, step, turn_.

With a small twitch of his shoulder, Slade bumped Richard’s hand free, and pulled them into a closed hold.

_Step, step, turn_.

Inches apart, they spun around the room faster and faster, like the beating of their hearts. He straightened their arms so as to pinwheel, then eased back. A smile crested Richard’s face, bright like the dawn, and Slade thought it one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. Laughter bubbled up from his lips, and Richard laughed too, rising and falling with the silent orchestra.

Together, they slowed to a near stop, swaying more than turning. The mercenary leaned down slightly, searching Richard’s eyes for any sign of discouragement. Finding none, Slade tipped the rest of the way, capturing his lips in a kiss.

The little bird gasped, pressing back into him with fervor, hand tightening on Slade’s waist. _God_ , the feeling of his lips, the touch of his skin, vanilla, musk, and above all the sound of his steady heart—Slade wanted to drown in it.

Their joined hands remained clasped, but Richard’s free hand reached up to tangle in Slade’s hair. Slade responded, sliding his hand up the little bird’s back. It was a foolish mistake.

Richard yelped in pain and jerked. Slade cursed at himself, instantly dropping his hand away from the broken bones.

“I—” he began.

“It’s okay,” Grayson wheezed. He pressed his cheek into Slade’s chest, panting softly. “ _It’s okay_.”

They stood like that for a while: the little bird breathing through the pain, regaining his proverbial footing. Eventually, he released Slade’s hand, and reached up to cradle the mercenary’s face.

“Good night, Scary Man,” he whispered into Slade’s lips.

Leaving the mercenary with one final, chaste kiss, he pulled away and moved to the staircase. Pausing before the first step, Grayson looked back at Slade one more time, and his face was _sad_. It was barely a moment, though, and he disappeared up the stairs. The sound of the door closing hit Slade in the chest.

He stood alone in the training room, reeling. Something happened, something of _import_ , and he had absolutely no idea what it might have been.

* * *

### August 12th | 2a

Slade woke at oh-two hundred thirty-two hours to the sound of footsteps in the main room.

Without even checking the cameras, he knew it was Grayson. Slade could have simply rolled over, but instead found himself climbing out of bed. In the living room, Richard stood looking out onto the screen porch, skin mottled in the moonlight.

“The door opens, you know.”

Richard turned and smiled softly, shaking his head. “I’m sure it’s armed at night, and I didn’t want to trip an alarm and wake everyone.”

As if the little bird couldn’t find a way to bypass the security. Slade came to stand beside him.

“Is it so difficult to abandon your nocturnal tendencies?”

He huffed, amused. “No. I can’t fall back to sleep, and it won’t do me any good to lie in bed.”

The mercenary noted his tight shoulders, careful posture.

“Pain?”

Richard turned back to look at the yard. “Do you get nightmares, Slade?”

“No.”

“Never?” He glanced over in surprise.

“Not in over a decade.”

It was one of the numerous quirks of the serum. The bird hummed and returned to gazing at the yard.

“Do you not dream, either?”

“The same.”

Not a great loss, in Slade’s book. Dreams were dangerous, frivolous distractions.

“Usually, I don’t either—get nightmares, that is. Surprising, given my _nocturnal_ _tendencies_ ,” he drawled.

“Yet, you have been.” Grayson looked at him questioningly. “If I woke up when you walked outside my door, I’m going to wake up if someone screams.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “When did I scream?”

“The night before Rose left, do you not remember?”

It wouldn’t be terribly surprising, PTS nightmares sometimes worked that way.

“No, I don’t. I woke up heaving like I’d sprinted miles.”

Slade clicked his tongue. “You were taken prisoner, beaten, and killed: it’s a surefire recipe for post-traumatic stress.”

“You would know,” Richard sassed, “—well, except for the ‘dying’ part.”

He blinked at Grayson.

“What? You’re in the Rogue’s Gallery, and I had to memorize all of their profiles in my time as Robin. Most of your military record is so secret that it technically doesn’t exist—I’d wager that a fair amount isn’t even _digitized_ —but the highlights were easy enough to harvest.”

Grayson looked away with a shrug.

“Slade Joseph Wilson, age twenty-three: Weapons Sergeant of 3rd team of Bravo Company, in the 1st Battalion of the 10th Special Forces Group. You were taken as a prisoner of war in the Gulf, allowing for your team to evacuate wounded and hostages.”

A Silver Star wouldn’t be buried deep, and it wasn’t exactly classified. Medals were stupid and generally worthless, but had their uses for promotions, which lead to increased pay.

“They knocked me around, trying to soften me up with psych tactics and sleep deprivation. Wintergreen showed up before they got into anything truly nasty.”

“You knew Randy back then?”

The words felt slow in his mouth. “That’s how I met Billy.”

Grayson wheezed and looked over, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Are you joking? You met Wintergreen because he pulled your sorry backside out of a Quraci camp?”

Billy had never—and would never—let him live it down.

“ _Well, bollocks to you, Jackass! Don’t you recognize a rescue when you see one_?” 

_Apparently_ , being dehydrated, half-starved, and going on seventy-two hours without sleep weren’t valid reasons for being _slightly_ dazed and confused.

“Such was the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Richard snickered, and shook his head. “That was the year Grant was born?”

Being captured had a way of putting one’s priorities in order. Slade had been almost entirely sure that he was going to die in that camp, and was perfectly happy to give his life for that of his teammates and country, satisfied that he’d done something worthwhile. His only regret was that he hadn’t asked Addie to marry him.

“No, he was born roughly a year and a half later; I was twenty-one during the incident in the Gulf.”

“The record says that you were twenty-three.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sure the Bat’s records also say that I’m currently fifty. I’m forty-eight.”

There were two lies Slade had told in his entire life: the first was telling the recruiter he was eighteen. He didn’t regret the act, and knew that he’d answer for it eventually.

Grayson was silent a moment before he completely turned around and looked up at Slade, aghast.

“You enlisted at _sixteen_?”

Slade fixed Richard with a critical gaze. “You were an active vigilante at thirteen, sixteen when you graduated high school, and freshly seventeen when you took up Nightwing .”

“That’s different!” he spluttered. “Very different environment, different ethos.”

“Fair,” the mercenary conceded with a nod.

Vigilantes were paramilitary, even ones as strict as the Bats, and paramilitary was _very_ different than military.

“Why on Earth would you join up so young? Jesus, why not finish high school?”

The standards of education in rural Kentucky hadn’t been stringent; _book-learning_ always came after the needs of the family. Slade decided against telling Grayson that he’d gotten better education, better lodging, and better nutrition in Basic than he’d had in his whole life.

“ _Most_ people dropped out after their sophomore year,” he said dryly. “Booneville remains the seat of the poorest white county in the US. The years got leaner as I grew older; I figured I’d do something useful with myself.”

“What about your family?” Grayson tipped his head, running the numbers. “If you’re only forty-eight, are they still _alive_?”

It had been decades since Slade paid his parents any serious thought; the past was the past. He shrugged.

“My mother died when I was young. She was a kind and pious woman, though a fool.”

She’d been clever, too—good with numbers and part of the small minority who’d finished school. But, she let herself be chained by the tyranny of kinship, and that proved her undoing.

“What about your father?”

The mercenary’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s in Hell, where he belongs.”

_That_ surmised everything worth knowing about the man.

“Did you send him there?” Grayson asked, with a note of censure.

Slade snorted. “No—his own wickedness did that.”

Whether it was the beer, cigarettes, or coal mining was anyone’s guess. Richard looked at him with some blend of horror, sadness, and pity. His father’s ways had long since caused him any grief; there were higher powers than Charles Wilson.

He pawed the bird’s head. “Wipe that look off your face, Grayson. It’s life.”

Richard turned into the swipe, pressing his cheek into Slade’s hand. Moonlight spilled across Grayson’s face: eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Slade rubbed his thumb across a cheekbone, considering this fascinating contradiction of a man, who held innocent love, but also talons sharpened by the pain experience. It was a marvel that a lamb and tiger could exist in a single stunning, fearsome creature .

“You did, you know—do something useful with your life,” Richard said, without opening his eyes. “You served with distinction for nearly twenty-five years. You helped end a war. You have two brilliant children.”

Only the first was (generally) true, the latter weren’t Slade’s doing—he could admit that much.

“The war was won by the lives of American men and women. Saddam was a dyed-in-the-wool dictator, and the insurgents who came after were no different; I did what anyone else would have done.” 

That first year, Slade felt that he had done something unequivocally _good_. Locals cheered to see American troops, they were hailed as liberators. Children would join the GIs on patrols. His and Addie’s relationship was more peaceful than it ever had been, he had two fine sons. Slade was Delta Force, the best of the best, and he was goddamn _good_ at his job.

“Rose and Joseph’s goodness has little to do with me.” Slade paused, before quietly adding, “we both know that.”

Grayson sighed, clearly considering the merits of debating the point. He wisely chose to abandon a losing battle.

“I’ve fought you for half of my life; the danger you pose isn’t in your strength of arms, but your mind—you’re a tactical nightmare.” Richard snorted. “By the time you left, you were a Colonel in Delta Force, had command of an entire squadron. Are you trying to say the war wouldn’t have dragged on another two years if you didn’t act? I have no idea _what_ you did, but I’m confident that you started coloring outside the lines.”

Slade hated the promotions, hated everything that put him behind a desk; he firmly believed that if troops would die on his orders, he should be out there with them. But, promotions meant more resources, the ability to get things done.

ESI happened about a year after the war officially began, and the difference in his abilities was marked—it’s not that he _wasn’t_ skilled before, but after the serum his abilities were well beyond human. Slade could mentally see how everything linked together, make use of greater volumes of information. Once he made Lieutenant Colonel, he put the full extent of those abilities towards ending the goddamn farce of a war.

“Whatever I did, or didn’t do, doesn’t change the fact I’ve been a mercenary for over a decade. I cheated on my wife, got my son maimed.”

“You’re right,” Grayson agreed. Slade felt a proverbial snare close on his ankle. “All you’ve done as a mercenary doesn’t negate your service record.”

Richard picked up his free hand; the Little Bird’s were calloused, but they looked delicate in comparison.

“These hands have taken many lives, but they’ve also saved many lives. They’ve brought pain and joy. They’ve committed acts of violence and love.”

Grayson’s face wrinkled, searching for the right words.

“Slade, I’m not blind or willfully ignorant; you’ve done a lot of horrible, unforgivable things, but life is not a zero-sum game.” His eyes fluttered open, like swords unsheathing from scabbards. “Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

Slade gently pulled the man forward, trying to escape those piercing sapphires. Richard nuzzled into his chest, sighing softly.

“My choices don’t keep me up at night, nor does my profession.”

They genuinely did not: some people were prey, some people were predators. The Lord had made Slade a hunter, so he hunted.

“I never suggested they did. I’m saying you’re more than a mercenary, more than a killer; it would be a disservice to paint you in such a one-dimensional light. It’s so... _reductive_. You’re a son, a friend, a father, a husband, a man.”

Richard placed a palm gently on his chest. “You’re _human_ , Slade—even with a metagene and the fruits of unethical experimentation—and that is beautiful.”

The knots in Slade’s stomach had knots, and an unnamed feeling clawed up his throat. He was _confused_ —even more than he’d been when Grayson left him in the training room. Every slight had been repaid with kindness, every hard word with patience. Men did not do such things, not in reality; such grace and forgiveness were divine.

“You say foolish things, Little Bird” he finally murmured.

The mercenary stared at the shadows of leaves dancing on the wall, listening to Richard’s heart slow to a resting pace as he relaxed under his touch.

Life was slipping from Slade’s control; he needed to get his head screwed on straight. It surely wasn’t malicious or intentional, but Richard was twisting Slade’s mind all the same. There’d been an open contract in the Caribbean which offered a reasonable price—he would pack his gear and be gone before the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary from “Deja Vu” by J Cole.
>
>> Half-Closed Hold— You can see it used in Andrei and Natasha’s waltz scene in the _War and Peace_ mini-series. Bonus: the height difference between the two actors, six inches, is the same as Dick and Slade. [[Scene](https://youtu.be/MeSsQmNRecQ)] 
>> 
>> Barlow Knife— A classic kind of pocket knife. [[Image](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Case_Barlow.jpg#/media/File:Case_Barlow.jpg)]
>> 
>> “Basic”— Basic Training, the initial training process for all who enlist in the US Army. 
>> 
>> Sophomore Year— The second year of American high school, (10th grade), generally 15-16 years old.
>> 
>> “go-bag”— Also known as “bug-out bag”, a pre-packed kit with essential items, to be used in the case of emergency evacuation. Rose would maintain such a duffle for the exact reason it ends up getting used: Wintergreen showing up and saying that they needed to leave, now. 
>> 
>> “oh-two hundred thirty-two hours”— 02:30 aka 2:32am. Slade uses military time, which employs a 24-hour clock, unlike the standard American 12-hour system. 
>
>> “Bonaparte's Retreat”— there are two different songs by this title. This is referring to the old fiddle tune from the 1800s, famously used in Aaron Copland’s “Hoe-Down”. 
>> 
>> “Short Trip Home”— Written by Edgar Meyer, a notable composer of string music that draws on Appalachian influence. His work is absolutely beautiful. 
>> 
>> “Come Thou Font”— a traditional Protestant spiritual. 
>> 
>> “Shady Grove”— _cackles evilly_. Slade probably told himself that this song is fairly widely known, but it’s frequently referred to as a “courting tune”. 
>> 
>> “Black is the Color”— _cackling intensifies_. The full name of this song is “Black is the color (of my true love’s hair)”.
>> 
>> a;fjsdl;kfd I could go on for paragraphs about music, my feelings, and its centrality to this entire series, but I’ll leave it at: it’s some kind of royal irony that a very agnostic person now regularly listens to spirituals because they discovered them while writing gay fanfic. wyd lmaoooo
>> 
>> y’know, fuck it. Here’s some playlists
>> 
>> Slade’s Setlist--[[YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHPdnSW4164&list=PLljld5CnCtOeE1PHq84rwREquxBIyasca)] [[Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/692EbDXLrbzju800ov6NfG?si=bfdf44db8f68457f)]
>> 
>> These versions have a styling close to what Slade would have used, with the exception of “Shady Grove”. It’s typically played on banjo, dulcimer, guitar—or some combination thereof—so it was difficult to find a pure version which included vocals. I tried to find a solo violin with vocals where I could. 
> 
> Slade is an accomplished cellist — _Deathstroke_ (2016) #28
> 
> Wintergreen’s quote when busting Slade out— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #18
> 
> “The feeling that something had been stolen…” _Deathstroke_ (2016) #50
> 
> In Rebirth, Slade enlisted at 17, _Deathstroke_ (2016) #31. Issue #21 incorrectly gives his age as 16. Slade’s original backstory in The Judas Contract has his enlistment age at 16. I opted to use the younger age. 
> 
> “My mother was a fool who got herself knocked up by a drunk”— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #25
> 
> Silver Star— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #21
> 
> There is nothing to say how or when he earned that honor. He also earned a Distinguished Service Cross, which is literally a step below the goddamn Medal of Honor. 
> 
> A Footnote:
> 
> The details Slade gives about his childhood are not stereotypes. I have no interest in furthering the hateful, damaging image of “dumb hick southerners”. _Things have radically changed since the days of his youth_. 
> 
> I crawled the 1970 census data for Owsley county to verify enrollment and education levels. Of course, Slade dropped out in 1985, but I couldn’t drill-down to the county-level in the 1980 census. Also, sweeping education reform didn’t occur until the early 90s with the Kentucky Education Reform Act. [Fun facts! In the 1989 case Rose v. Council of Education, the state’s supreme court ruled that the entire school system was unconstitutional, based upon unequal distribution of funding to poor schools.] 


	12. The Weight of Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Once there was a way to get back home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must regretfully inform everyone that Friday updates are discontinued until further notice. Tuesday updates will continue, as per usual, at 11:30a ET.
> 
> This fic _is_ complete.
> 
> However, I am a new author— _Eternal Lines_ is the first real piece of prose I've ever written. This has been a learning process. I've found that last 5% from "finished" to "queued for posting" takes far longer than anticipated.
> 
>   
> **  
> _Content Warning:_ [Click Here]  
> **  
> 

* * *

### August 17th | 4p

In any place where Wintergreen resided, Dick knew that four sharp was tea time: Vermont was no exception.

Randy was delighted to have company, Slade being one for neither tea or afternoon leisure. Dick wasn’t a tea drinker himself, for all he loved Jay’s blends. However, a cup of English Breakfast was worth enduring for the warm english muffins—topped with local strawberry preserves and clotted cream— which accompanied it.

"Do you hear that, Grayson?"

Dick paused, muffin half-raised to his mouth. There was a slight breeze through the trees, the gentle hum of summer insects, but nothing else. Of anywhere on Earth, he thought this place to be one of the most well-secured, and had slept without a single fear for his safety—nobody was getting past Slade and Wintergreen.

"No," he said seriously, "what do you hear?"

The Englishman closed his eyes and sighed blissfully. "Bloody peace and quiet."

It was surprising, in a way, that Slade’s house—for all he refused to name it—was so tranquil. Dick wasn’t sure if he’d _ever_ experienced this kind of complete rest in his entire life. He was under strict orders to do nothing but heal: there were no cases, no responsibilities, no _family_. That...hurt, but at least he wasn’t alone, and he let himself chuckle at Randy’s joke.

"It must be quite the change; Slade's a bit of a handful. Are you enjoying retirement?"

He’d been surprised to find that Wintergreen was genuinely retired, for the most part. Randy was only a few years younger than Alfred, but the life of a soldier was brutal on the body.

"You have _no_ idea. Though, I suspect that if Rose goes to university, I'll be making appearances wherever she chooses to attend."

The odds sat fifty-fifty on that. Dick sipped his tea.

"I'm sure she'd be happy to have you nearby—playing the doting uncle isn't the worst thing. I think she missed you and her dad."

"I daresay she did," Randy agreed, and looked knowingly at Dick. "She's missed you as well."

Rose stayed only four days, and Dick passed most of that time in narcotics-induced naps, but spent his waking hours largely with her. They’d picked up naturally where they’d left off, years ago. The arrangement had been odd for many reasons, but—Dick realized with a twinge in his chest—it had felt like a _home_.

"It's mutual; it was good to see her. I’m glad that she was able to adapt to Minneapolis."

"You never met Lilian, of course, but she was tenacious, resilient." Wintergreen smiled fondly, refilling his tea. "She ‘lived out loud’, as one might say. Rose has definitely taken after her mother in many regards."

Anyone who had the guts to be a mole in the heart of cartel territory must have possessed a certain strength of character. Rose had told him many stories about her mother and aunties—most of them made a younger Dick blush, but they were almost always funny. He’d always had a burning question, though, but knew better than to ask at the time. Now, things might be different. Dick shifted in his seat and set his cup upon its saucer.

"Forgive me for being rude, but I've always found it strange that Slade cheated on his wife. It seems out of character; he's a loyal man, honorable. He loves Adeline deeply, even after she tried to kill him."

Wintergreen looked at him in surprise, and Dick smiled gently.

"I've spent half of my life around men who try to hide their emotions behind disinterest, silence, or anger: they're all dialects of the same tongue."

Randy’s expression shifted to one of fond approval. "I do suppose you have, that's probably why you can tolerate Slade’s company."

The wicker chair creaked as he settled back, preparing to spin his yarn.

"The SAS and more elite US teams frequently collaborate, which is how myself and Wilson worked together so often. Somewhere around the turn of the century, the American government became concerned about large drug cartels gaining a foothold in Southeast Asia. They sent us in teams of two to various locations around the subcontinent. Slade and I were deployed to Cambodia, ostensibly embedded in a UN oversight team."

"Wolves among the sheep."

"More like wolves among the MP dogs,” he said wryly. “After the war, many locals were willing to become informants. Prostitutes make excellent moles, especially ones as skilled and well-placed as Lilian.” Randy shrugged and made a broad gesture. “As things go, it was easy—soldiers visit brothels.”

"Of course," he chuckled, "they weren't shagging. When they were supposedly having relations, Slade was helping Lilian with English, and she was teaching him Hmong."

It was easy to imagine a younger Slade soaking up all possible information instead of actually having sex. Dick almost smiled to himself, but then remembered that this story wasn’t going anywhere good. Levity fell from Randy’s tone.

"The cartel was far better organized than intelligence suggested, and they knew that a brothel would be a good place for an informant. One evening, some enforcers dropped by to 'check' on things.”

The Englishman’s face was hard as he looked down at his cup.

“Slade could be faithful to his wife, or he could blow the entire mission and leave Lilian to be raped and killed. They scarce had time to tear their clothes off before the door was forced."

Mid-bite, the muffin shifted from sweet creamy goodness to ash in Dick’s mouth. He knew a vague summary when he heard one; it was likely that far more unpleasant things had happened, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the details. His heart ached for Slade.

"Slade’s never forgiven himself for cheating on Adeline, has he?" Dick asked quietly.

Wintergreen sighed into his tea. "No, never—nor has he forgiven himself for failing to save Lilian."

Dick knew the details of Lilian’s death in vivid detail; Rose had nightmares for most of her first year in the States. He might have watched his parents plummet to their deaths, but he didn’t watch as his family was slaughtered in a deadly hail of submachine gun fire, or try to staunch his mother’s wounds as she bled to death.

“It’s not like Slade didn’t take bullets trying to get her out, or that it was his fault that the extraction request came too late.” Dick closed his eyes. “Sometimes, everything we have isn’t enough.”

It wasn’t enough to save Dami, or Jason, or Babs, or to prevent his own capture. Acidic bile rose up, chokingly, in his throat.

“I know, Lad,” Randy said heavily, with intimate understanding. “I know.”

The wind in the leaves was gentle. Dick focused on that noise, letting it soothe him, until he felt that he could breathe again.

“What would Slade have done, if she lived?”

The chair creaked as Randy leaned on its arm and rubbed his moustache.

“He’d probably have set them up to live in an urban center, maybe New York City, or outside Minneapolis—since Lilian had connections.”

“Then he’d undoubtedly never contact them, on the grounds of ‘safety’, while doing his best to be a jackass?” Dick asked with a wry smile.

Wintergreen chortled. "It's what the man _does_ when anyone gets too close: he tries to make people hate him. It hasn’t worked on you, though. You respond in ways he doesn't expect; it confuses, infuriates, and intrigues him in equal measure."

To be fair, it _had_ been working, until Dick _realized_ what the mercenary was doing.

“I think, since his current campaign of jackassery hasn’t worked, he ran. I think that’s why he took this job with no notice.”

“I’d suspected as much.” The Englishman’s gaze turned sharp. “What, exactly, is going on between you?”

Dick gave a slightly manic laugh. “I haven’t a damn clue; Slade’s been giving off more mixed signals than a faulty switchboard.”

“Oh?”

He knew that Wintergreen was fishing, but it was good-natured and genuine. The first week in Vermont he’d spent numbed by opioids, and the second distracting himself by playing cat and mouse with Slade. Now, with no barrier between himself and reality, Dick’s breath caught. Everything was so _heavy_ and he was _alone_ and _Damian was dead_. The weight of it crushed his chest.

 _Damian was dead_.

“Lad? Dick?” he heard Wintergreen call, as if from a distance.

He couldn’t _breathe_.

Across the table, Randy’s eyebrows knitted in concern. He opened his mouth to reassure the man, but all that came out was a rattling noise.

Damian was _dead_ and Dick could _never_ go _home_.

“By god, what has that _horse’s ass_ done this time? I _knew_ he was up to something.” Wintergreen muttered. “I believe you’re having a panic attack—you need to _breathe_.”

What a goddamn amateur mistake—he was better than this, yet Dick struggled to gain a hold on his mind. It felt like he was at elevation and the air was too thin. Randy looked like he was about to get up, and Dick didn’t want to be more of a bother. If normal measures wouldn’t work, it was time for more direct action. His eyes quickly darted around the table, scrambling for a solution.

Wintergreen’s tea service was a beautiful, blue agate affair. It was made of heavy stone, crafted by potters in-state. Upon the oval platter, a teapot sat atop a warmer with its flickering candle, with a matching sugar bowl and milk pitcher beside it. The tiny pitcher was pre-chilled in the fridge, just as the teapot was warmed with hot water from the tap. _The teapot_. Dick slapped his palm on the side of the pot.

Heat hit his mind like an electric current, disrupting his spiraling thoughts. He sucked in a full breath as the world snapped into focus.

“Christ, Lad, what are you doing!” Randy yelped. 

“System shock,” Dick said breathily.

His hand stung, but the teapot wasn’t hot enough to actually do any harm. He closed his eyes and breathed carefully in a five-seven-eight pattern.

“I’m fairly certain that is _not_ an advised treatment,” the Englishman said firmly, sounding eerily close to Alfred.

So close, in fact, that Dick almost felt chastened and opened his eyes.

“It’s really just extrapolation—running your hand under the faucet or holding an ice cube are both methods I’ve heard of before.”

Wintergreen gave him a judgmental look, but let it slide. “I dread to ask, but _what_ has Slade done?”

“Slade?” Dick frowned.

“You mean to say that his actions aren’t responsible for your current state?” Randy asked, disbelief readily apparent.

“No, not at all.”

The Englishman didn’t look convinced. Dick opened his mouth to reassure him that—on this _singular_ occasion—it truly _wasn’t_ Slade’s fault, but different words tumbled forth:

“Damian is dead.”

Chains began constricting around his chest again, and Dick dragged his hand down his thigh. The fabric of his pants rasped on his singed palm, providing a little, static-like zap to his brain.

“Who was Damian?”

Who _was_ Damian? Dick closed his eyes and choked back a laugh. Dami was an Al Ghul, a Wayne, an assassin, a warrior, a Bat, a hero, an artist, an heir, a Robin, a child, a brother—

“He was my son.”

The world felt deathly still for a heartbeat. Dick gazed at the tops of the tall pines, which swayed slightly with the mild breeze. Damian would have liked to sit out here and sketch, or perhaps practice violin.

“Surely you can’t be old enough,” Randy stuttered after a moment. “Though, I suppose you are, now. Who was the boy’s mother?” he asked more gently.

The corner of Dick’s lip twitched upward. “He was adopted, but his mother was Talia Al Ghul.”

Wintergreen swore. “How did you acquire a child from that _unpleasant_ woman?”

“Talia dropped him on our doorstep.” At Randy’s nonplussed look, he continued, “I don’t pretend to know the inner workings of her mind, but she genetically engineered and incubated a child from her and Bruce’s genetics.”

The wheels spun in Randy’s head. “So the lad was Batman’s blood son.”

“Correct.”

It was easy to talk to Wintergreen, someone wise like Alfred, but less remote—a friend. They’d built a rapport over the year they’d lived together, despite Dick’s hidden identity. 

“Of course, not a few months later, B _very convincingly_ died. Damian needed...he needed a parent, a _dad_. He was caustic, homicidal, angry, afraid. I had the papers done.”

“You adopted him? Legally?”

“Absolutely. It was one of the first things I arranged; without it, he’d be completely at Talia’s mercy. It was rough in the beginning, but we grew together.”

Dick pressed a hand to his mouth and rode out a wave of nausea.

“We were Batman and Robin for about six months, until Bruce returned. That didn’t change anything between Dami and I—he split his time between the Penthouse and the Manor.”

“I’d wager that Wayne didn’t appreciate it.”

“He was grateful for the second set of hands; parenting _is_ difficult, even when the child isn’t an indoctrinated assassin. I don’t think B ever saw me as a,” Dick’s throat clicked, ”a parent, despite the fact that Dami addressed me as _Ab_ or _Abi_.”

“Such a disagreeable man,” Randy said with reproach.

It surprised Dick, to hear such venom in the Englishman’s voice; he knew why Slade hated B, but couldn’t guess what Bruce had done to earn Randy’s ire.

“If the lad was Robin…” Wintergreen trailed off, thinking. “He wasn’t sighted during this past invasion, but he was seen during that fracas in Gotham, a few months ago.”

“It will be—”

A dread horror eclipsed his heart as Dick’s mind stalled, realizing that he hadn’t thought of his čhavo over the past few days. What kind of _monster_ was he?

“Dick, listen to me, as someone who has also seen a child buried,” Randy said, pulling on the considerable presence of an SAS Major.

“Continuing to live without holding the lad constantly in your mind does _not_ mean that you love him any less—nor does thinking about him without feeling suffocating pain.”

It was something that Dick knew, logically, but struggled to accept in his heart; it was something he needed to hear.

Unexpectedly, a laugh bubbled up from his lips. Then another. And another until he was genuinely laughing so hard that tears streaked down his face and his ribs ached. Christ, he probably sounded like he belonged in Arkham.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—” he made a sweeping gesture towards Wintergreen. “The best advice I’ve gotten hasn’t been from family or old friends or even other vigilantes—it’s been from you and _Slade goddamn Wilson_.”

The absurdity of it all was mind-boggling.

“You’ve spoken with _Slade_ about this?” Randy asked carefully.

“Yeah.” Laughter trickled away, and Dick wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was a train-wreck one night when he dropped by; he had me talk about Dami, then he talked about Grant.”

A cup clattered onto its saucer. “He did _what_?”

It was still stunning to Dick, and he could sympathize with the Englishman’s shock.

“He talked about how Grant looked like Addie, idolized his dad, and liked to overprotectively bully his little brother.”

Randy stared at Dick like he’d turned water into wine. “Slade won’t even _speak_ the lad’s name.”

“I know. I was there when it happened.”

Witnessing the murder of his parents—plus two years of vigilantism—stole most of his innocence, but the pain from watching Deathstroke cradle his son’s body caught Dick wholly off-guard. Instead of dwelling on that vivid, terrible memory, Dick inspected his hand. Though slightly red, it wouldn’t even qualify as a first-degree burn.

“Oh, God save us all,” Wintergreen said.

Dick looked up, confused at the man’s despair.

“Slade didn’t bugger off on this job because you’ve annoyed him. He _ran_ because he’s falling _in love_ with you.”

Fallen _in love_? Claiming that Slade had ‘caught feels’—as Rose termed it—was highly unlikely, but possible. Suggesting that the mercenary had _fallen in love_ was inconceivable. 

“I know he’s got a soft spot for me,” Dick said, “but _love_?”

Wintergreen fixed Dick with a withering glare. “Are you really that dense?”

He sidestepped Randy’s question. “Does Slade know?”

“No, he most certainly does _not_.” The Englishman snorted. “To be more specific, he ran because he’s confused about his feelings, and it scares him.”

“The night before he left, he taught me to waltz,” Dick said absently, his mind reeling.

“He did what?”

“He taught me the Viennese waltz. At first, I bought the reasoning that it was because we couldn’t spar. We were trying to make each other slip-up; it was a game.”

“Not at the end, though.”

Dick suddenly felt bashful, which was _ridiculous_ —they were both adults, and Randy had been a notorious flirt in his youth.

“He kissed me. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but this was... _different_.”

“You mean to say that the primary intent wasn’t carnal.”

“ _That_ wasn’t really an option, evidenced when he accidentally dragged his hand over my ribs.”

Impish delight burned in Randy’s eyes. “Oh, this is excellent. Slade forgot himself.” With a deeply pleased chuckle, he asked, “what are your feelings on the matter?”

Dick’s lips flattened in a line. “My feelings aren’t important.”

“That’s the Bat talking,” Wintergreen sniffed. “I asked after _your_ feelings.”

“I—” Dick looked away.

He’d tried to not think about it, to simply enjoy the time he had. He’d always been a dreamer, but he wasn’t a masochist.

“I don’t know when it happened, maybe it was the last time we met before the Syndicate invaded, but I love him. I am _in love_ with Slade.”

Dick’s heart slammed in his chest to speak the words aloud, stomach churning.

“I’d suspected as much,” the Englishman said with a gentle smile. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head dejectedly. “Randy, I leave in about two weeks. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, I don’t even know _if_ I’m coming back.”

It killed part of Dick to say it; Slade’s gruff yet tender affections had been air in his lungs as he was drowning, and going back to a life without any such kindness seemed worse than death.

“Will your feelings change?”

“No. That’s not how I work,” Dick said with complete confidence. 

For better or for worse, Dick loved one way: wholly and forever. He still loved Kori and Babs, and he would love them until he died.

“Let me tell you something,” Wintergreen began as he placed Dick’s cup and saucer on the platter.

“In Slade’s mind, Addie was his first, last, and always. Some of it is loyalty and love, but I imagine it is also because he deeply believes that good things cannot happen to him. He believes that no one else _could_ love him; it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

It was horribly sad, that someone could live that way. Dick’s mouth twisted in a frown.

“He’s wrong. I’ve told him before that he’s not some monster—I _know_ monsters. I’ve told Slade that he’s far more than a mercenary or a soldier or a killer: he’s _human_.”

Life was a gift, and life was precious. In that pause, in the silence, Dick took a moment to be thankful that he was alive, even if he had moments when he wished otherwise. The way was long and painful, but as Slade had reminded him, there was still _good_ he could accomplish. Randy stood in the doorway, considering Dick.

“You really do care for him,” the Englishman said softly with a shake of his head. “Lad, the man loves like he does anything else in life; he loves you now, he’ll love you when you return.”

With that, Wintergreen carried the service inside, leaving Dick on the back porch.

Dick believed in the most positive outcome on principle, though it had been hard to hold onto such an optimistic outlook in wake of recent events. His life had been summarily destroyed: his name, his son, his home, his family, the vestiges of his relationship with Bruce. Even in victory, what would be left for him?

But, if Randy were correct about Slade, could it be a place to begin again? It would be different—different than he’d ever imagined—but then again, a circus boy couldn’t have imagined becoming Batman’s partner. Whatever it would look like, it would be a _home_ , surrounded by people who loved him, and that was all Dick Grayson ever wanted in life.

A songbird hopped along the ground, pecking for food. Dishes clattered in the sink as Randy started washing. Fresh, clean pine wafted on the breeze. He smiled.

Maybe he was a fool, but hope—the first he’d felt in a long while—began to dawn in Dick’s heart.

* * *

### August 21st | 1p

It was just past one in the afternoon when Slade pulled into the garage.

A week away proved to be exactly what he needed to clear his mind of Grayson’s snares. He was in high spirits—the job had gone well, as they nearly always did. The mercenary smirked to himself as he grabbed his gear from the trunk. In fact, he was greatly looking forward to seeing the little bird.

It had been three weeks since Richard broke his ribs—they’d need another two to fully heal, but _movement_ should no longer prove problematic. Billy would be leaving after dinner to courier Grayson’s domino to Ish, leaving the safehouse all to Slade and Richard. Now, there were no meddling Bats or disruptive responsibilities. He bumped the front door open, gear case in one hand and duffle over his shoulder.

Richard looked up from where he sat reading at the island, and smiled brilliantly.

“Bienvenue chez toi.”

 _Welcome home_.

He got up and closed the door behind Slade. “Comment ça va?”

 _How are you_?

Slade stared at him blankly, hand hovering over the inset security panel. The little bird was greeting him at the door? Asking about him? Grayson’s face briefly flashed in confusion.

“Parles-tu français?”

“Oui,” the mercenary responded absently, then shook himself. “Combien de langues parles-tu?”

Richard climbed back on the chair. “In how many languages am I literate, or how many do I speak?”

“Both,” he said, finishing with the security.

“I’m conversationally fluent in fifteen, can read twelve to varying degrees, and I can write in six.”

Slade concealed his surprise, but it was a near thing. He’d always known Richard to be intelligent and sharp-minded, but never truly registered the _extent_ of his abilities. 

“You’re twenty-four. How have you had time to learn _fifteen_ languages?”

With a tilt of his head, Grayson began rattling off an explanation: “well, bilingual household with English and Romani—that’s two. Batman teaches all of us ASL, Spanish is essentially the second language of the United States. Once you know a romance language— _and_ how to learn a language—it’s not difficult, so: I needed French to study Savate, Portuguese to study Capoeira, and Italian—because the old crime families in Gotham were from Italy. I think all of us speak Farsi and Hejazi Arabic, because _Ra’s_. I picked up Tagalog for Arnis, Mandarin once I needed to be involved with Wayne Enterprises. When Nyx was a kid, he used to like to watch movies in their original Japanese, so I learned to be able to watch with him. Rose taught me Hmong. Admittedly, there wasn’t a reason for German or Russian.”

He tapped his lips. “I also speak the League’s dialect of Arabic; Damian taught me.”

Grayson shrugged. “It’s communication. I like people. The more languages I speak, the more people I can connect with.”

That averaged to just over one new language a year, since he was thirteen, no small feat.

“You mean, the more people you can _harass_.”

The bird seemed to find that funny.

“Of course, Scary Man.” He turned back to his reading. “Randy is grilling some of the venison steaks for dinner, he’s going to ask if you brought back groceries.”

They had a system: Billy cooked, Slade did dishes. Billy kept inventory and made supply lists, Slade managed procurement. Whomever was in residence took care of the grounds, and they both did maintenance on the building. Each man was responsible for his own space and laundry.

“As if I would forget,” Slade snorted. “Provisions are in the backseat; let me drop my equipment downstairs.”

“Oh!” Richard popped up from the high chair, scooted past Slade, and slid into a pair of sandals. “No need, I can grab them.”

He held out his hand for the car keys. The mercenary frowned and held them beyond Grayson’s reach.

“You shouldn’t be lifting anything.”

A Cheshire smile curled across Richard’s face.

“It’s been three weeks.” He popped up on his toes, keeping his eyes on Slade, and closed his hand around the keys. “I can manage light calisthenics and yoga.”

It took effort—more than the mercenary would like to admit—to resist burying his hand in Richard’s hair and _taking_ what was so blatantly offered. He exhaled slowly.

“Can you, now?” he said, dark and low. “Then you’d best not do anything stupid.”

Still, Slade released the keys when Grayson tugged on them.

“I know my limits, _Soldier Boy_.”

With a toss of his hair, Richard strode out the front door. Slade leaned his head back against the wall, stifled a frustrated groan, and debated the merits of jerking off in the shower.

Christ, these last few hours would pass like _molasses_.

* * *

**Content Warning:**

Dick has a panic attack, and presses his palm into the side of a teapot ( _not_ a kettle) to shock himself out of said panic attack. He is not injured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary based on “Golden Slumbers” by Paul McCartney   
>   
> Slade, _very serious_ : I'm going to take this job and get my head screwed on straight  
> Slade, _pulls in garage_ : I made a great choice, everything back to normal, and I am _so_ getting laid tonight  
> Slade, _the **second** he opens the door and sees Dick_:  
> .......  
> [ _Windows error noise_ ] slade.exe has stopped working  
>   
> SAS— “Special Air Service”, British special forces, the equivalent of American Green Berets. 
> 
> MP— Military Police
> 
> “The War”— The Second Indochina War (incl. Vietnam). In the rest of the fic, “The War” means the wars in the Middle East which occurred in the beginning of the 21st century (and in some places, continue).
> 
> Tea— “Afternoon Tea” is the fancy tea with finger sandos and tiny cakes. “High Tea” was the working class meal served around 5 or 6, with heartier fare. Randy’s tea is based on the habit of a British family friend. 
> 
> Jason’s Tea— SIE!Jay acquired a love of tea from Alfred, and later learned about tea blending while studying poisons with the League. Once he returned to Gotham, he started making his own custom blends, named for the colors of their tins. The first two are based on Harney & Sons teas: Hot Cinnamon Sunset (orange tin), Blue & Yellow (yellow tin). Lavender tin is a green tea with jasmine. I’ve yet to sample any of Harney’s jasmine blends, though.
> 
> If you are fluent/a native speaker, feel free to correct my French.  
> Lilian was a DEA mole— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #10, #45
> 
> Wintergreen was an SAS Major— _Deathstroke Rebirth_ (2016)
> 
> “You NEEDED to make her hate you. It’s what you DO when you develop feelings for someone…”— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #18
> 
> Slade speaks French, Mandarin, Hejazi Arabic— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #26, #28, #31
> 
> There is no indication that he speaks any dialect of Hmong. In older continuities, he also speaks Greek and Russian.   
> 


	13. Paradise/War Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In a place that feels the tears, the place to lose your fears._   
>  _A place that is so pure, so dirty and so raw._   
>    
>  _Nobody but you—nobody but me, nobody but us—bodies together._   
>  _I want to hold you close, tonight and always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is explicit. It is enthusiastically consensual. We don't discuss any heavy topics.
> 
> However, our boys are idiots, and to err on the side of caution, I've added a content warning.  
>  **  
>  _Content Warning:_ [Click Here]  
> **  
> 

### August 21st | 9p

The dinner dishes were put away, and the sound of Randy’s car had long since faded down the drive.

They both knew where the night was headed; Slade looked like he wanted to jump Dick’s bones the second he walked through the door. He’d toned down the hungry stares, if only out of respect for Wintergreen, but the tension was unmistakable.

Dick leaned against the edge of the bathroom sink. He wasn’t _nervous_.

It was rare, in his experience, to recognize the magnitude of an event as it happened. This felt weighty, like his whole life was about to change. Even if it was just sex for Slade, it was so much _more_ for Dick. He’d meant every word he’d spoken to Wintergreen. He loved Slade—it didn’t matter if the man never knew or reciprocated.

He could put on any number of acts: suave confidence, sultry seduction, aggressive desire. Dick was certain that he could even _fool_ Slade—he’d done it before. But, he didn’t _want_ to put on a mask. Tearing his eyes from the basin, he gazed at himself in the mirror.

Any bruising was long gone, his skin was clear. There wasn't even a hint of bags under his eyes, and Dick couldn’t recall the last time _that_ happened. His hair was getting a little long, but hadn’t reached shaggy, and it had a nice sheen. He looked good. He looked like Dick Grayson—nothing more, nothing less—and for once, he was enough.

It was a heartening thought: this wasn’t about what he _could_ be, or even what he could be for Slade— Slade just wanted _him_. With one last steadying breath, Dick left his cuff on the counter next to the toothbrush cup, and slid out of the bathroom.

As he padded down the stairs, he watched Slade close the kitchen windows. Some things about the mercenary were oddly old-fashioned, like his habit of tucking in his t-shirt. It didn’t look dorky, though—it looked good as hell. Dick pulled himself away from eyeing the man’s biceps. Hopefully, that the old-fashioned streak would play in his favor.

In truth, he’d stacked the deck, snagging one of Slade’s wonderfully soft flannels from the dryer. The mercenary never said as much, but whenever Dick wore Slade’s clothes, he noted a marked increase in lingering glances. Now, the look leveled at him was less ‘lingering’ and more ‘brazen’.

Dick smiled as he offered his right hand to Slade, palm up, and left twisted behind his back. He tipped his head at the raised eyebrow, expression turning somewhat impish. Being of a mood to humor him, Slade took his hand, and Dick led them through the porch to the back yard.

Under his feet the grass was short and prickly; he savored the feeling of the earth. So unlike Gotham, the air was clean and rich, filled with the sounds of chorusing frogs. Warm light spilled from the porch, just enough for Dick to see. Everything felt _right_ when he stopped half-way between the tree line and house. Dick slipped his hand from Slade’s and rested it on the mercenary’s waist.

“You’ve been practicing the lead as well, Little Bird?” Slade rumbled in amusement.

“Of course, what’s the use in training only one side?” He smiled cheekily. “On three?”

The mercenary nodded. “On three.”

_Step, step, turn_.

There it was, again: that perfect feeling which washed over him like waves on the shore. Dick closed his eyes, letting his mind settle into the _rightness_ of it all; he didn’t need to see to guide their bodies.

_Step, step, turn_. _Step, step, turn_.

He could feel Slade beneath his fingers, in the weight of the hand on his shoulder. For the first time in over a decade, he didn’t feel alone, even in the deepest parts of his heart. He felt _whole_.

_Step, step, turn_. _Step, step, turn_. _Step, step, turn_.

The pains of the last months still ached, but they were balanced by the pure sensation of being connected with another person. He and Slade were _alive_. Dick threw back his head and laughed, eyes popping open to take in the man above him. Slade’s stark white hair was set off by the midnight blue sky, studded with stars. The look on his face….adoration and desire.

The mercenary easily bumped Dick’s hand from his waist and wrapped a broad hand on Dick’s hip. Reversing the turn, he brought them up to the full one hundred and eighty beats. It was fast, nearly too painful, but the burn meant that Dick was alive. Slade—Slade was smiling at him— _genuinely_ smiling. With a dawning realization, Dick found that he wanted _this_ for the rest of his days.

It coursed through him, and he acted as he did with everything else in life: he trusted heart and instinct. Lingering a moment too long on a step, he hooked an ankle around Slade’s leg, and shifted his hand resting on the mercenary’s shoulder to a collar grip. Sweeping the hooked foot from the ground, Dick used the momentum of the turn to spin Slade to the ground.

There were a million ways that Slade could have escaped the throw, but he let Dick send him down, sitting upright as soon as he hit earth. Dick neatly landed in his lap, and didn’t hesitate to lean forward and kiss him soundly. It was almost desperate, the way he curled his free hand in Slade’s hair, tilting his head so they could be that much closer. The mercenary responded in kind, fingers digging wonderfully into Dick’s scalp. Slade nipped at his lip, swiped a tongue into his mouth. Dick shivered, groaned, but pulled away while he tried to find a balance between shallow breaths and panting that still made his ribs scream.

“I believe you said something about a bed?”

Slade grinned wickedly. “So I did.”

Hands firmy under Dick's ass, he pinned their hips together. Dick made a pained noise, brain shorting at the sensation of grinding against a _very_ hard line in Slade’s pants. It was the mercenary's intent, surely, because he was suitably distracted when Slade stood. Dick scrambled, locking his legs around Slade’s waist.

“ _Jackass_ ,” he hissed.

Living around Slade for three weeks had lulled him into a sense of normalcy—he forgot that Deathstroke, while not as strong as Clark or Diana, was one of the strongest metahumans. The limits of his strength weren’t known, though one file on the BatComputer had a chilling report of the mercenary snapping a femur with his bare hands. Dick shivered.

Slade chuckled darkly at his reaction, nipping at Dick’s throat. “You like strength, Richard?”

Kori helped Dick realize that he had a thing for partners who could manhandle him, and damn if Slade wasn’t pushing all the right buttons.

“Yup!” he said brightly and without an ounce of shame.

Slade snorted, but continued to carry Dick as he walked back into the house, pausing only for a moment to lock and arm the outer doors, before entering the master. Dick squirmed as Slade shifted to grip him one-handed, freeing a hand to flip a switch that turned on two soft lamps, sitting upon nightstands. Between them was a California king, blanket and flat sheet already removed and neatly folded in a corner armchair.

“As much as I’d like you to fuck me through bed,” Dick breathed into Slade’s ear, “I can’t lie on my back yet.”

A growl vibrated in Slade’s chest. He turned and sat on the edge of the mattress, Dick snugly seated in his lap.

“I’m sure we can find something that’ll work.”

_Yes_ , Dick thought, _he could_.

He planted a palm on Slade’s sternum before whispering, “I’ve wanted to blow you since that night at Noonan’s.”

He twisted his whole torso, then unwound with a snap.

A strangled “ _Christ_ ” escaped as the air was driven from Slade’s lungs and he fell back onto the bed. Dick seized the opening, crawled over him in an instant, kissing like he was trying to steal the man’s soul while he made quick work of his belt.

“In fact, I absolutely would have gone down on my knees in that alley.”

“ _Sweet Jesus_ ,” Slade choked, reaching to grab two handfuls of Dick’s ass.

Dick pressed a kiss right at the edge of his jaw, dragged his tongue down Slade’s neck, savoring the rumble it earned. He brought one hand up to ghost fingertips over the man’s chest, locking eyes as he slid down. Slade sat up enough to pull his shirt over his head, then propped himself on his elbows, hypnotized. Dick’s thumb played at the waistband of the mercenary’s boxer briefs, breaking his gaze to pepper light kisses over Slade’s hip bones.

“I should’ve known that you’re a tease.”

His voice, low and rough, sent a thrill through Dick's stomach. Dick just winked, though, tugging underwear and trousers together, following them with his lips centimeters from skin. Slade was completely _smooth_ : not soft like a woman, but almost entirely without hair, as if it didn’t grow at all. It was odd, but Dick found that he liked it.

He wrapped his hand around a calf, nudging legs further apart, alternating kisses and nips. Dick licked his lips. Between Slade’s legs _did_ have hair, snowy as that on his head, and neatly trimmed. He was six-foot-four and _proportional_ —thick, cut, and heavy. 

He knew exactly what he must look like: mussed hair, swollen lips, wearing the other man’s shirt. Dick caught Slade’s eye and held it for a beat, before abruptly dropping his head and licking a stripe from base to tip. He was rewarded with a broken cry, and _oh_ , did that light a fire in him. There was nothing more fun or arousing than making a partner feel good, and oral was all about giving pleasure.

Dick focused everything on the task at hand, cataloging every reaction. Slade was definitely a quiet person in bed, but he wasn’t unresponsive: each shuddering breath, each minute twitch spoke volumes. Flicking his tongue at the nerve cluster at the base of the head garnered a hiss that was too close to pain, but swirling around the head itself made Slade’s hand clench in the sheets; rolling his lips over his teeth and pressing made Slade’s hips jerk.

Once enough spit had leaked from his mouth, Dick used it to slick the hand gripping the base, pumping first in counterpoint, then tandem. The former got him a pleased grunt, the latter a firm hand in his hair. Dick groaned.

" _God damn_ , Richard."

He ran the firm point of his tongue along the underside as he pulled off, resting his cheek on Slade’s hip, and gazing up at the mercenary.

"You can move, just don't try to fuck my throat."

Slade swore as he got to his feet. "Deep throating isn't all it's made out to be," he said.

Adding a second hand to Dick's hair, Slade guided him forward. He tongued the heavy shaft, pumping in time with Slade's shallow thrusts.

"Shit, you look good with a cock in your mouth."

Dick pulled back enough to exhale on the damp prick, making Slade shudder. He looked the mercenary square in the eye.

"I like sucking cock."

He kept eye contact as he took Slade back in his mouth, head bobbing in earnest but hand still, only a support at the base. It was an invitation, one which Slade accepted with a groan, hands flexing in Dick’s hair as his hips rocked faster.

"l can tell; you put professionals to shame."

The filthy praise went straight to his dick, hard and leaking in his shorts. The more turned on Slade got, the hotter Dick got, that's just the way he was. He tightened his lips as much as he could, lapping with his tongue.

Slade panted. “If you keep that up—”

He pulled away, grinning with slick lips. “Oh, I think we both have more than one in us tonight.”

The man didn’t have the chance to reply before Dick took him as deep as he could manage—then moaned. Slade’s hips bucked, thighs shook, and he shouted.

“ _Richard_!”

Cum shot down Dick’s throat, and he eased back enough to swallow without choking, working Slade with firm, steady strokes. The bitter essence wasn’t so acrid—wherever the mercenary had been, he’d been eating fruit. It likely wasn’t for Dick’s benefit, but he appreciated it all the same. Once the last tremors subsided, Dick pulled off with a lewd ‘ _pop_ ’.

A satisfied grin curled on his lips as he watched Slade, who was easing himself to lay back on the pillows. Sure, Dick was incredibly hard, almost uncomfortably so, but he could be patient. He took the opportunity to remove his clothes, wanting to feel all that _skin_ , but left on his boxer briefs.

He curled himself into Slade’s side. Dick rested his ear on the man’s chest, savoring the mellow peace, the sound of Slade’s breathing returning to baseline. This—this was just as good as the blow job, albeit in a different way.

Eventually, the mercenary rolled his head to gaze down at Dick, blinking owlishly. He looked well-fucked.

Dick chuckled. “What?”

“You are _sin_ , Richard Grayson. I am going to destroy you.”

He grinned, shifting to rest his cheek in a palm while running a finger coyly down Slade’s chest.

“Is that a promise, Soldier Boy?” 

Faster than he could perceive, the arm Dick was using to prop up his head was knocked down, and Slade was _gone_. A strong hand held his shoulder, giving him the chance to instinctively throw an arm up between his forehead and the mattress. He _throbbed_.

Slade kissed and bit a line from his jaw to the crook of his neck, mouthing dire things about his collarbones. The mercenary seemed fascinated by every inch of Dick’s skin, running his hands everywhere. Dick’s stomach twisted—part of him wanted to cry at the thorough devotion; no one had touched him like this in at least half a year. Instead, he focused on physical sensation, drowning himself in the feeling of Slade’s touch.

When Slade reached the downy hair on Dick’s legs, he hesitated a moment before softly petting. Dick sensed the question.

“I’ve waxed for the better part of a decade; it damages the root.”

“Preference?”

The raspy hair of Slade’s goatee ghosted down his outer thigh. He sucked in a breath; it was electric.

“My uniforms have always been skin-tight, at least in the legs; less hair makes suiting-up easier. Especially—” Dick stuttered as Slade ran a thumb down the seam of his legs, “—some of the Nightwing suits that were closer to wetsuit-style body gloves.”

Dick eased his legs apart. Slade hummed appreciatively as he switched to running his hands along Dick’s calves, fingers tracing muscles.

“It doesn’t seem like those would provide any protection,” the mercenary said casually, as if he weren’t systematically taking Dick apart.

Lips kissed the inside of his thigh. Dick _shoved_ a fist into his mouth to stifle a wanton noise as he drove his hips into the mattress.

“None of that, Little Bird.” Slade reached up and pulled his arm away from his face. “I want to hear you _sing_.”

_Sing_ he did—Dick rutted into the bed, panting, desperate noises spilling from his lips. It was some kind of divine hell, feeling Slade lavish his inner thighs. It felt so damn _good_ that his stomach trembled, despite the sparks of pain from his ribs. A familiar feeling began coiling in his gut. He would _not_ finish just from Slade sucking hickies into his thighs. He _wouldn’t_.

“Who knew you were so _sensitive_ here? the mercenary teased while adding another mark high inside his right thigh. “You’re not going to _come_ from this, are you?”

“S—Slade,” he whimpered.

“Don’t worry, we’re not done yet.”

With one final nip on the meat of his ass, he felt Slade come up to straddle his thighs. Dick tried to squirm, letting out another small whimper.

“Slade?”

There was no reply, except a tongue tracing the freshly-healed, pink skin on his shoulder. He cried out, hands scrambling in the sheets. Slade, the absolute jackass, chuckled as he held Dick’s hips, preventing any relieving friction. Never one to make the same mistake twice, the mercenary _very_ delicately kissed or licked every patch of new, sensitive skin on Dick’s back. There was no discernable pattern, and without being able to see, each flick of Slade’s tongue was an electric shock in a pool.

Tears beaded in the corners of his eyes. The combination of pain, as his breathing slid from his control, with deep pleasure from Slade’s ministrations was too much. Just before Dick tapped out, the touch stopped. He sighed in relief, attempting to gather the scattered pieces of his mind, but the reprieve only lasted a moment: weight shifted above him, and Slade firmly ground against his ass.

All thoughts of stopping fled his brain. If he’d ever had any reservations, they’d long since been firmly thrown out the proverbial window. He _wanted_ Slade, wanted Slade to _touch_ him. Dick wanted it so badly that there was a rising frenzy in his blood.

“ _Please_ ,” he moaned.

Slade’s voice rasped in his ear. “You should lose your shorts, then.”

A moment after he was released, he heard the bath door swing open. Dick tugged off his underwear, adding them to the pile beside the bed. He flopped onto his side, arm thrown over his face. No one had _ever_ wound him up like this before, tension so high that his skin crawled.

Soft feet padded across the braided rug, then Dick felt the bed dip. A broad hand soothed up the line of his leg, coming to rest at the nape of his neck.

“Little Bird,” Slade murmured.

Dick opened his eyes to find Slade inches from his face.

Large hands caressed him, sweeping down his sides, easing the buzz under his skin. Dick melted into it, letting his eyes flutter shut and body go lax. This—this is not what he expected in the slightest. He’d thought it would be violent passion, not soft devotion. That wave of _rightness_ crested over him again, and his heart felt full to bursting. He’d wanted to share his body with Slade, to bring him pleasure, to show love in every touch. Dick reached up to cup Slade’s jaw, the other resting on Slade’s heart, and tried to press his words into a kiss.

Some part of Slade heard him, kissing back with fervency. The hand soothing along his side gripped the back of his head, tilting it to deepen the kiss. They were as close as they could be, warm skin touching every point of contact. Dick moaned softly, which Slade took as an invitation to bite his lip. The hand on his head dropped to knead his ass, and Dick moaned again, grinding forward and throwing a leg over Slade. Fingers skimmed at his cleft, now spread wide.

“Quit teasing,” he gasped.

The mercenary chuckled, but obliged. His hand withdrew, followed by the pop of a cap. Dick inhaled quietly when _warm_ gel drizzled against his skin. A finger traced the slick pool at his entrance. Dick’s heart leapt in his throat, stomach quivering. Then, all his breath was stolen when—without warning—the finger pressed in, coming to rest at the second knuckle.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” Slade grunted.

Dick panted shallowly, guts flip-flopping. It didn’t _hurt_ , there was more than enough lube involved, but it felt _big_. He let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been waiting on this guy—” the rest of his words were lost in a choked-off cry as the finger slid home.

Pain _lanced_ through him, followed instantly by blind panic. It clawed at Dick’s mind, ripping every rational thought to shreds, replacing them with garbled fear. He couldn’t _breathe_ , he couldn’t _move_. In a base, instinctual attempt to free himself, he threw a knuckle towards Slade’s windpipe, catching himself _just_ shy of his target.

“Stop! Slade, _stop_!”

The mercenary froze, stiller than a statue. Dick pressed his forehead against Slade’s chest, heaving. So close to the source, his nose was flooded with the smell of the mercenary’s aftershave, a scent he’d grown to love. This was Slade. Slade _wouldn’t_ hurt him; it had been an accident. Slade stopped.

Panic began to ebb from Dick’s veins. He was lying in Slade’s bed, in Slade’s very secret and very secure house: there was no safer place in the world. Able to think clearly, he didn’t want to completely stop, he just needed Slade to slow down. He’d waited _months_ for this, goddamnit. Stubborn determination began rising in his blood. Dick _would_ have this.

Slade had remained motionless and silent, waiting for Dick’s lead.

“I—I haven’t hooked up with anyone since _before_ Noonan’s.”

Despite the awkward angle, he tugged at Dick’s chin.

“That was almost _three_ months ago.”

“Yeah.” Dick stared at point on the mercenary's cheek, feeling somewhat bashful. “I did say that I’ve been waiting on a guy; I’ve _wanted_ you.”

Slade’s eye fell hooded. “ _I see_.”

That tone, tinted with mahogany and smoke, sent a shiver down his spine.

“No wonder you’re so tight. Relax, Little Bird,” he purred, nuzzling kisses into Dick’s neck. “I’ll make you feel good.”

Message received, loud and clear: Slade pressed an apology to Dick’s lips. It made his _heart_ feel good, to feel loved via acts, real in an indisputable way. Words so often proved empty, but who could argue with the tender and unhurried way that Slade kissed him? Who could dispute that Slade, once again, waited for his direction, making no attempt to move the finger buried inside him?

He felt himself beginning to relax, and took stock of his body. Dick was fairly confident that no actual damage had been done—he didn’t feel any lingering pain, and though it _had_ been a while, a single finger was far smaller than a cock.

They continued kissing lazily as Slade worked him, _gently_ , with one finger. His ribs would twinge with the thrusts, and Dick started to feel pleasantly drunk on the heady mix of bright twinges and deep pleasure. A big, warm feeling floated into his chest, and he let himself be carried by it, running his hands over any part of Slade that he could reach. Lost in that soft buzz, Dick was surprised when two fingers pressed against, but _not_ into him: a polite question. It eased some of the haze in his mind.

“Keep going,” he instructed, prepared this time, and recalling to push _out_ against the fingers.

They slid all the way in a single, smooth glide. Slade made a choked noise. Dick grinned wickedly into the other man’s chest, rolling his hips, nipping at the collarbone in front of him. When he ran his tongue up Slade’s neck, kissing hard at the mercenary’s pulse point, Slade started working him in earnest, scissoring. Dick happily fell back into warm, drunken fuzz.

Before three fingers pressed in, Slade ducked down to kiss him soundly. Dick sighed, raking his nails along the man’s back, then shifted so they could rub against each other with delicious friction. Slade made a damn near _animalistic_ noise as he bucked his hips. Dick couldn’t help a mischievous snicker, grinning up into the banked embers of the mercenary’s gaze.

“You’re the kind of person who likes to top from the bottom, don’t you?” he growled.

“And what if I am?” Dick kept a look of practiced innocence on his face, then stretched to gently bite the lobe of Slade’s ear. “It’s a real shame that my ribs are slowing me down. Believe me, I’d be all over you otherwise.”

He yelped at the sudden, twisting sensation when Slade quickly rolled _up_ and _over_ , to lie behind Dick. One hand pulled Dick’s head back by the hair, controlling his torso, and a thigh slotted itself between his legs, firmly pinning his lower body. Despite not being able to move much, he didn’t feel trapped as three of Slade’s thick fingers fucked into him. The balance between pain, and the pleasure of being filled, was exquisite; he felt no shame in letting loose a moan that was pulled from his very toes.

Then Slade started, _very intentionally_ , bushing his prostate with each stroke. Lightning exploded behind his eyes, and Dick cried out, thrusting vainly into the air. Every glide over the sensitive nub made his entire pelvis feel just as good as his dick getting jacked. The sensation flowed down his inner thighs and he knew that he was leaking everywhere, making a filthy mess. It was the delicious, _agonizing_ feeling right on the edge, but it was _never_ enough. His world narrowed down the feeling of his body; words became a theoretical concept. Dick tried to speak, to tell Slade to get on with it, but the only thing that came out were moans and pants.

Slade’s chuckle rumbled into the back of his neck. “So this is what it takes for you to stop running your mouth. Good to know.”

The mercenary let go of his hair to lay a hand, lightly, over his throat. It was too much, _too_ too much. Dick turned his head and screamed into the sheets.

Release, gratification tore through his whole body, even though he didn’t feel the characteristic pulsing which he associated with orgasm. It seemed to take much longer than usual for the tremors to subside. Once the did, Slade slowly dragged his fingers out, wringing a few aftershocks. Dick’s head felt floaty and his body like happy jelly.

The mercenary rolled back over so that they were face-to-face. He had the smuggest look plastered on his _stupid_ mug, and was _entirely_ too pleased for someone who was hard.

“Cat got your tongue, Grayson?”

Sure, he might be drunkenly floating on cloud-nine, but he was Dick Grayson, and his remaining two brain cells would _not_ tolerate this. Slade was _not_ expecting a forceful shove to the shoulder that sent him onto his back—the slight ‘ _oof_ ’ was very satisfying—nor Dick quickly swinging himself to straddle Slade’s thighs.

Normally, he was far too sensitive at this point, but a prostate orgasm had done nothing to alleviate his aching cock. Dick spied condoms sitting on the nightstand. He snagged one, pausing to lock eyes with Slade as he pumped the man’s shaft—no complaints. It was quick work to roll the condom down and slick it with plenty of lube. With one hand pressing into the center of Slade’s chest for balance, he used the other to line up and slowly sink down.

Even with all their prep he had to breathe carefully as the head breached the ring of muscle, but then...Dick gasped softly, eyes going wide. Oh— _ooh_. Slade was _inside_ him, perfectly hard and filling. He eased himself, rocking slowly, until he was flush with Slade’s hips. Dick’s mind floated, head lolling slightly, as he acclimated to the feeling.

“ _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!_ ”

His eyes popped open to see corded muscles standing out on Slade’s neck. The mercenary’s hands gripped his hips like a vise.

“ _Move_ ,” Slade hissed.

He couldn’t go fast, not without jarring his ribs too painfully. Dick moaned as he raised himself up until only the head remained buried in his ass, then rhythmically clenched his muscles as he slid back down. Slade growled, carefully thrusting in counterpoint. “ _Good_ ” didn’t even begin to describe it. Dick threw his head back, mouth hanging open. The happy haze returned stronger than ever.

“ _Look_ at you.”

There was _nothing_ beyond this moment, nothing beyond him and Slade and how they fit so perfectly together. Each thrust of pain-pleasure dragged Dick higher until he was soaring.

“Richard... _Richard_.”

Dick grabbed one of Slade’s hands and wrapped it around his length, almost weeping at how good it felt. He blinked, panting, and tried to _tell_ Slade that he was riding dangerously close to the edge, but couldn’t summon the words.

“God, _yes_ , Richard. Let me feel you come apart on my cock.”

Slade firmly rolled his foreskin up—which made Dick’s _eyes_ roll back—then snapped his hips over Dick’s prostate as he stroked down with his hand. Dick shouted, clamping on the prick buried inside him, and he was cumming.

The intensity of Slade’s earlier teasing had _nothing_ on this; he’d felt the first orgasm throughout his entire body, this orgasm he felt to his _soul_. Every cell, every part of his being screamed in pleasure as Slade fucked him through it until—distantly—he heard Slade roar, thrusting hard and fast as he came, too.

Eventually, the mercenary's hips slowed along with the waves rolling from Dick’s core. He slumped forward, strings cut. Slade wrapped his arms around Dick, cradling him gently. He pressed a kiss to Dick's cheek and rolled them onto their sides, keeping up the gentle kisses as he carefully pulled out. Though normally an unpleasant feeling, it was dulled by soft cotton clouding Dick’s mind.

He blinked, and Slade was tossing him a washcloth before disappearing into the bathroom. It was so cold without Slade, but the washcloth was nice and warm. It was nicer still to clean the sticky mess from his chest and between his legs, even if he felt clumsy. He was grateful for the thoughtful gesture, because he was almost entirely sure that he couldn’t stand, never mind walk. Dick somehow pitched the towel into a hamper against the wall before going limp, eyes drifting shut.

“Are your ribs alright?” Slade asked, squeezing his arm.

Dick made an affirmative noise. He couldn’t remember the mercenary sliding back into bed; maybe he’d fallen asleep for a moment.

“You’re shaking, Little Bird,” he murmured.

Huh. He _was_ shaking, and he was cold. Dick tried to snuggle closer to Slade’s broad, warm chest, but was held fast.

“Richard,” he said slowly, “can you speak?”

Dick thought for a moment, then giggled, shaking his head. Slade gripped his jaw and one, ice-blue eye studied his face. Dick admitted that he found the mercenary _very_ handsome.

“You’re high as Hell.”

_Was_ he high? He’d certainly never felt like _this_ after, but he’d just had the best sex of his _life_. ‘Drunk’ might be a better word—drunk on very good sex.

“Jesus,” Slade muttered. “I’ll be right back.”

He whined when the man pulled away, but the mercenary returned moments later with a glass of water and a pill.

“It’s just naproxen; you’ll want it, trust me.”

What a silly thing for Slade to say, _of course_ Dick trusted him. After a few mouthfuls, he took the glass back, setting it on the nightstand. Dick let himself be arranged against Slade’s chest as the mercenary reclined against the headboard. A large, plush throw from the armchair was pulled over both of them, and he happily nestled down with his ear pressed against Slade’s heart.

One hand cradled the base of his head, the other draped across his hip. Slade spoke to him gently. Dick didn’t follow his words, but rather the sound of his voice, so profoundly soothing that it reached his very marrow. The world was soft and muted. There was nothing to worry or fear—he was _safe_ ; he could simply _exist_ in the circle of Slade’s arms. There was here and there was now, and nothing more. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

Time seemed unimportant until Dick blinked again, rubbing his eyes as an odd fog lifted from his mind.

“ _Fuck_.”

What the fuck had come over him? Other than being fucked stupid. Literally.

“Are you back with me, Little Bird?”

“Yeah, I am. Jesus, _shit_ —I’m sorry.”

Without comfortable batting to insulate his thoughts, life felt staggering; it poured into his skull like a torrent. He shook, and tears started to well in the corners of his eyes. _Everything_ was so much. He was drowning, choking—

“ ** _Stop_**.”

Dick’s mind responded on reflex, snapping to attention. He focused on the bright, starburst of pain from a thumb digging into the pressure point at the hinge of his jaw.

“You didn’t do anything wrong; it’s adrenaline and endorphin release.”

Slade didn’t sound mad or aggravated, and he wasn’t the kind of man who hid such things. Dick tried to contain the tears, but a few rolled down his cheeks. A thumb brushed them away.

“I didn’t think that I pushed you that hard. Do you always fall into headspaces so easily?”

“I’ve never had _this_ kind of response.” He looked up, squinting. “Headspaces? What do you mean— _oh_.”

BDSM. Slade was talking about BDSM. Dick ducked his head, as if he could escape the rising sense of mortification. He didn’t know how it was possible to feel so embarrassed after shamelessly sucking someone off, then riding them.

“I’ve never tried anything like that. I thought it was just good sex and months of buildup—or maybe I’m way more into guys than I thought. Have you ever…?”

“No, I haven’t, but I can recognize it.”

From what he understood about BDSM, reaching that state usually required physical pain or specific kinds of teasing. Dick hummed thoughtfully. He replayed the evening in his head, examining the series of events from an analytical view. It was stupidly obvious.

“Oh my god, it was my ribs.” He made an abortive, wheezing laugh. “Thrusting made them twinge, though not enough to genuinely hurt. How did I manage to inadvertently have kinky sex?”

Lost in his own musings, Dick hadn’t noticed Slade go stock-still.

“Richard,” he said tonelessly, “you _have_ had sex before, right?”

Dick shifted so the other man could see him roll his eyes.

“ _Wilson_. If you think that I didn’t sleep with either of my girlfriends, you’re out of your mind. Aside from the headspace, I’m not sure which part came off as virginal.”

Slade stared back, face completely blank.

“You said that perhaps you’re ‘way more into guys than you’d thought.’”

Dick snuggled back into the mercenary's chest.

“If you’re asking if I’d _slept_ with a man before tonight, the answer is no.” He grinned. “They never make it past the blow jobs.”

* * *

* * *

**Content Warning:**

  
  
Dick panics for a moment during sex, because nobody uses their goddamn words, and Slade assumes that Dick's getting laid on the regular. When Dick panics, Slade immediately stops and listens.

The sex is sane and consensual, but not exactly safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary based on “PILLOWTALK” by Zayn
> 
> Slade is 6’4”— _Deathstroke_ (2016) #41, _Deathstroke_ (1991) #35


	14. Technicolor Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I feel life for the very first time,  
>  love in my arms and the sun in my eyes.  
> I feel safe in the 5am light,  
> you carry my fears as the heavens set fire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: next week's chapter will be going up on **Monday** at 11:30a ET.

### August 22nd | 5a

Slade woke to early morning light filtering in through the glass sliders.

His body was pleasantly lax, mind contented in a way that he’d not felt in recent memory. Last night had exceeded his expectations in terms of pleasure, and almost _nothing_ impressed Slade. He’d thought he was going to have a heart attack at a few separate points, but in the end, Richard curled against his chest and the mercenary fell asleep to the sound of his steady breathing.

Now, the little bird sat on the ground between the bed and slider, morning sun flooding around him. His chest rose and fell evenly, legs twisted into a half-lotus, eyes closed. Slade laid silently and watched him meditate. Richard was covered in scars, stories of a thousand trials and a hundred torments, yet he felt no need to hide. He looked peaceful— _happy_ —despite the fact he must have been aching, if not in outright pain.

Many were deceived by his warm exterior, but Richard’s core _burned_. He was passionate, tough as nails, took life by the throat for all it was worth. He was not content with existing, no, he _lived_ —defiantly shining brighter whenever someone attempted to dim his soul. Some of that nebulous confusion which had been haunting Slade’s thoughts became clearer—an _ancient_ warmth:

For you are my lamp, O LORD,  
and my God illuminates my darkness.

Irritated at his inability to place the fragmented memory at the edge of his mind, the mercenary made a frustrated noise. Grayson opened his eyes. His smile was natural, brilliant.

“ _Gutamurja_.”

“Should you be doing that?” Slade grunted.

Richard rolled his eyes as he unwound himself. With a satisfied sigh, he stretched and rose to his feet.

“I modified it, it’s fine.”

He was casually graceful, entirely unselfconscious as he crawled into bed. Grayson caged Slade with an arm planted on the pillow, the fingers of his free hand sliding down a strand of white hair which had escaped its ponytail. Slade ran a hand along the little bird’s jaw: not silken but still stubble-free. Richard’s smile was soft as he dipped to press their lips together in a kiss. Warmth, holy devotion, seeped into Slade’s bones.

“You are a gift,” he murmured.

Richard made a confused sound. “I know I give good head, but nobody has gone so far as to say that.”

Slade clicked his tongue and pawed at Grayson. “ _Impudent_.”

Going with the affectionate swipe, Richard chuckled, then rolled back to prop his chin on Slade’s chest, eyes bright and full of mirth. The mercenary could no more resist the sight than he could breathe water.

“Come here,” he purred, tugging at Grayson’s chin.

They melted into further pleasure.

* * *

Slade woke again, mid-morning, after a lazy daybreak round two.

They’d figured out that positions were limited. Slade had tried to take Richard from behind, and while he moaned like an expensive escort as Slade slid in, he’d screamed in true pain at the first thrust; the force went directly up his spine, too close to the healing bones. Once again, though, Richard slept blissfully on Slade’s chest.

With a shock, Slade realized that the constant itch, discontent under skin had quieted. He never felt centered unless he was fighting, hunting, or playing music, yet he felt content with Richard in his arms. He could simply exist here, in this moment. Slade looked down at the little bird in awe, but didn’t let himself think _too_ hard—it would be counterproductive. He contented himself with soaking in the moment: listening to morning birds, a hand carding through soft, black waves, feeling the heat and weight of another body.

After a while, Richard began to twitch, drawing Slade from his quazi-meditative peace. The naproxen was likely wearing off. He carefully slid out of bed and padded to the kitchen, returning with two steaming mugs of coffee—his black, Richard’s with a splash of milk—and another painkiller. As expected, a very sleep-rumpled Richard Grayson rubbed his eyes and blinked.

“Mmm...kava?”

Slade chuckled and handed over the mug. The little bird took it gratefully, thanking Slade with a kiss on the cheek as he settled back into bed. They laid together, savoring their coffee in the cool morning, a sort of calm that he hadn’t known since the first days of his marriage. Slade was loath to break it, but there was no sense in putting off a thing that needed doing. He closed his eye, trying to burn the moment into his mind, before speaking.

“What happened last night was not acceptable.”

Grayson sighed and curled away.

“I didn’t think you’d care that I hadn’t slept with a man before—” _Shit_ , no, that’s _not_ what he meant, “—and I didn’t want to make—”

“Not that, you silly little bird,” Slade grunted, pulling Richard back towards him. “You bottom like a pro, that’s not the issue.”

“I’m choosing to take the comparison to a professional sex worker as a compliment, but please, continue.”

Grayson sipped his coffee blithely. Slade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What happened was not acceptable because it was _dangerous_.”

Gazing down into Richard’s glassy, blissed-out face had nearly sent Slade into a panic.

“Oh, you mean the BDSM thing.”

“ _Yes_ , the _BDSM thing_.” The mercenary resisted banging his head against the headboard. “How much do you know about it?”

“Not much, except that everything in popular media is grossly inaccurate.” He licked his lips nervously. “I’ve only had full-on sex with two other people, and messed around with maybe three more.”

The two must be his former girlfriends, Koriand’r and Barbara Gordon—Wallace and Harper would be among the candidates for the others. There had to be a few men in Richard’s past; he might’ve been able to train his body for sex, but _nobody_ got that good at sucking dick without practice. Slade should have guessed—Grayson was too invested for casual hook-ups—but the mercenary had fallen for his facade, just like the rest of the world. 

“Like I mentioned, I don’t have personal experience either, but I’ve seen it used while on the job. A number of years ago, we ran security for a swanky party at a vacation home in Aspen. When the guy said that sex would be involved, we thought ‘swingers’ party’—and that it would be easy money. Suffice to say, our assumptions were _vastly_ incorrect.”

Most of that night, Slade wished he could bleach out of his mind. Unfortunately, the serum allowed him to recall every second in high-definition _and_ prevented alcohol-based removal techniques.

Richard grimaced. “Jesus, that sounds like something out of a bad porno, or one of those crazy _50 Shades_ books.”

“It was before those were published, and it was _exactly_ as horrible as you’re imagining. I told everyone to take a vacation, flew home, made my wife dinner, and had _normal_ sex that didn’t involve effing violence or weird head games. _Christ_.”

It had probably been the least aggressive sex that they’d ever had, but after what he’d seen, Slade couldn’t bear to be anything but gentle. No pushing, no shoving, no pinning: just eating Addie out ‘till she was boneless, then building back up to fuck her deep and slow, legs over his arms, the way she liked best.

Dead air was broken by the little bird’s tolerant sigh. Slade stared at the far wall as Richard adjusted himself, settling against the mercenary’s chest, hands curled around his mug.

“I can figure how some of it could be dangerous—it’s not difficult to cause real damage with a misplaced strike—but it’s not like you were hitting me before, or while, we fucked.”

Even the uncharacteristic crassness, which he generally found amusing or arousing, didn’t provoke Slade. He remained deadly serious.

“The first time that I got you off, how far gone were you?”

Richard hummed, tilting his head to rest on Slade’s shoulder.

“The level of intensity rose and fell like a sine wave. It’s all a bit hazy...but I was definitely in _some_ kind of headspace.”

“Were you articulate?”

He scrunched his eyes shut, thinking. “No.”

“Then you couldn’t have told me to stop.”

That gave Grayson pause, going stiff.

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I _would_ have stopped if you started clawing, or tried to tap, but I had you pinned—I was behind you, I couldn’t see your face.”

Slade sighed, and wondered if this was scaring Richard away permanently; a bad first experience could put anyone off bottoming. Still, ignoring the problem, in the hopes of getting laid again, wasn’t worth the risk of what might happen.

“Do you ever come off a patrol, still amped?”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “That’s how it works. Unless things are very slow, you usually get back still riding the adrenaline, then you hit post-patrol crash; it’s an inescapable part of vigilante life.”

“That’s a natural high.”

He squinted. “I know?”

“Why did you call things off, in the alley after Noonan’s?”

“Because we were both hopped up on….” he trailed off, face going blank.

“Yeah. What you experienced last night was the same high.”

His brow furrowed. “That didn’t feel _anything_ like a patrol rush.”

Slade took a last sip of his coffee before putting it on the nightstand, rubbing his face.

“It feels different because it’s much stronger, and you’re in a very different mindset. These headspaces use careful manipulation of the same endorphin/adrenaline response, to drastic effect. From everything I’ve— _very unwillingly_ —learned on the subject, it doesn’t have to involve pain, but last night absolutely did. No matter which road is taken, after a certain point people get... _malleable_.”

Grayson's heart thundered. Good. He was starting to understand the severity of what happened.

“If there’s no pain, they’ll happily do as they're told. If there’s pain involved, they’ll keep asking for it—assuming that they’re still verbal—because pain perception becomes distorted. They won’t say ‘stop’, they won’t _want_ to stop, because they’re _high_.”

Around his mug, Richard’s knuckles were white.

“You—you stopped when I said ‘stop’.”

The mercenary frowned. “Of course I did, I don’t fuck unwilling people. But, anyone who’s intoxicated beyond a buzz isn’t _truly_ willing, and the absence of a negative order does not imply an affirmative.”

Slowly, Grayson turned to Slade, a heart-rending expression on his face. It was as if he couldn't believe that statement, like basic consent was a radical concept. After a moment’s thought, though, it made sense: Slade doubted that the altercation about Richard’s assignment was the first time that Wayne had ignored his autonomy, the effing bastard. If Richard were accustomed to that kind of behavior in a general setting, why would he expect any different in bed? 

Grayson pressed his cheek into the mercenary’s collarbone.

“I absolutely wanted to have sex with you, and not because I was punch-drunk. While I wouldn’t do it that way again, I _don’t_ regret anything we did. Last night was profoundly good in ways that I can’t fully describe—you teased me until I came so hard that my brain melted and I transcended into another plane of existence.”

Watching Grayson writhe under his hands was one of the _hottest_ things that Slade ever experienced, but it had clearly been too much. He swallowed.

“I wouldn’t have done that, had I known that you weren’t accustomed to sleeping with men.”

“Slade.” Richard looked up with an amused grin. “I’ve edged myself before, _that_ wasn’t an issue. It was the combination with light twinges from my ribs that caused the problem.”

“ _Jesus_.”

The image of Richard slowly teasing himself—probably with a toy—was _not_ something that Slade needed haunting his mind. The little bird polished off the rest of his coffee and put the mug on his nightstand.

“I’ve never gotten off from edging alone, though,” he said conversationally. “That was new.”

Slade closed his eye and tipped his head back, mentally reciting the sub-provisions of General Order No. 1...one, possessing private firearms, two, entering a mosque without direct orders, three, possessing, producing, selling, or consuming alcoholic beverages, four...a thumb gently massaged the tense muscles of his neck.

“I want to have sex with you again, just not like _that_.” Richard nuzzled against his shoulder. “Thank you for easing me back to Earth.”

Slade quietly thanked Christ that Grayson had responded to an order, because if it hadn’t worked, his remaining recourse was a tranq, which would have only delayed a crash. He buried his face into ebony hair.

“I had to keep touching you, what an _absolute_ hardship.”

With a fond smile, Richard elbowed him gently.

“In hindsight, I’m surprised that neither of us foresaw _this_.”

He made a gesture around the bed. Slade internally sighed with relief—Grayson didn’t seem rattled in a lasting way—and fixed the bird with a raised eyebrow. 

“Perhaps, if you weren’t so _meddlesome_ and _annoying_ …”

“Maybe if you weren’t such an _obtuse jackass_ …” Richard shot back playfully.

“I’ll show you _obtuse_.” Slade nipped at his ear, savoring the chuckle. “I can’t carry disease; condoms are your prerogative.”

“Is this your indirect way of telling me that you’re a top?”

Well, he _was_. Slade’s mind skidded to a halt. He hadn’t even considered that Grayson might want to fuck him. Was Grayson suggesting it? Richard turned to gaze at him with a devilish look on his face.

“I’m giving you a hard time, Scary Man. I’m _flexible_.”

Slade blinked.

“So you’re aware, the possibility of re-fracturing your ribs is the _only_ thing stopping me from tossing you onto the floor.”

Richard just smothered a laugh into his chest.

### August 23rd | 9p

Something had settled in the mercenary since his return. He was still gruff and prickly, that would never change, but he was no longer aggressively acting a jackass. They naturally fell back into the tentative routine begun before Slade bolted: in the evenings they’d sit on the screened-in back porch, Dick studying and Slade playing violin.

The ‘safehouse’—it was Slade’s house, no matter what the man said—was deep in the north country, and after sunset, the darkness was _complete_. It reminded Dick of a winter that Haly’s spent in Baton Rouge. On the road between Montgomery and Mobile, where there was a whole lot of _nothing_ , daj boosted him onto the roof of their trailer after lights-out. The Milky Way stretched like a chasm across the sky, and as a child, Dick had never seen anything more awe-inspiring.

It was just as brilliant as he remembered. Dick set aside his book, gazing at the starry trail as the last notes of _The Blackest Crow_ faded into the air. Slade paused between songs, sipping at his whiskey.

“Had you seen the Milky Way, before you established this house?”

“There was significantly less light pollution forty years ago,” he said dryly.

Fair—Dick sometimes forgot Slade was older than thirty-five, and in his youth, the mountains of Kentucky were likely dark enough to let the stars shine clearly. To Dick’s surprise, the mercenary continued.

“There are two kinds of places in Qurac and Afghanistan—major cities and Bumfuck, Nowhere. In the desert, there’s a kind of total darkness that I’ve never seen replicated.”

It was rare for Slade to speak—unprompted—about his past, especially his time in the service, and Dick treasured every detail. Aiming to give the mercenary space, he got to his feet and idly wandered down the back steps. The last fireflies of the season flickered in the grass of the backyard. 

“I dueled Ra’s in the Thar Desert, but that was at dawn.”

“Dramatic bastard.” Slade snorted. “Weapons?”

“Katanas.”

He hummed with interest. “The victor?”

Dick grinned over his shoulder. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

They both knew that didn’t mean victory. He shook his head.

“It wasn’t a duel to the death—I don’t know if I could best Ra’s on his own turf if he were seriously intent on killing me.”

Dick carefully reached towards a firefly, which flitted just beyond his grasp. He stumbled, but quickly regained his footing.

“I won, by kicking him in the mouth and then disarming him.”

A chuckle rolled across the lawn. Kicking Ra’s in the mouth _was_ funny, but he wasn’t sure why Slade thought so, unless the merc was laughing at Dick’s fumble—either were entirely possible. The light inside the house flicked off and Slade quietly shut the screen door behind him, sitting on the stoop.

Dick gazed to the tree line, watching the bugs, who now shone all the brighter for the deeper darkness. His body was sore from their more pleasurable activities, but he was mending well. Letting pine fill his lungs, fresh and clean from the showers that passed through before dinner, Dick realized that his mind was healing too: talking with Randy felt like a turning point.

Life would never be the same again, but that was _okay_ ; no matter how badly it hurt, Dick would never choose an existence where he hadn’t known Damian. He’d been entirely sincere when he’d told Slade that the cost of love was not too high. Still, things had to change form, because that which did not grow or change was dead.

Dick had no ashes to forge diamonds, or to scatter from the top of the tallest building in Gotham. It wouldn’t be fitting, or possible, to sit at Damian’s grave and smoke a cigarette, reading aloud the balcony scene from _West Side Story_. The only thing Dick had were memories. Stories, the history of family, had always been important to both himself and Dami—and those he could share.

He crouched in a particularly dark patch of shadow, being sure to stay very still, save his lips.

“When Damian came to us, he’d never seen a cartoon. Talia was teaching him how to slit a man’s throat at three, which didn’t leave a lot of time for things like _Toy Story._ ”

Wishing ill on the dead was probably a bad thing, but Dick couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Naturally, I was horrified, and sat him down to watch _Finding Nemo_.”

Slade made an amused noise. “How did he find it?”

Knowing the merc could probably make out his expression, he tipped his head towards Slade.

“It was the end of ‘watching movies with Dick’,” he said flatly.

The responding chuckle was a rich, rolling sound. Dick smiled, turning back to gaze over the lawn.

“Hood eventually convinced Dami to let me take him to a production of _The Lion King_ , on the grounds that it was ‘ _Hamlet_ with lions’.”

Dick’s lip quirked up at the memory. “Dami’s review: ‘it was surprisingly tasteful, though disappointing in that Simba didn’t perish’.”

Slade snorted. On their way home, Damian had proceeded to engage Jay in a lengthy debate on the importance of Hamlet’s death. Dick considered it a high point of the evening.

“That bought me enough good will for another movie. I made a more thoughtful decision: _Princess Mononoke_. It’s a cartoon, but it’s not really a _kids’_ film. I figured that he’d appreciate the art, at the very least.”

It had been like a knife in the heart to go into Tim’s room for the DVD. Soon after carving his way into the Bat life, a bubbling and enthusiastic Timmy brought his entire Miyazaki collection from the Drake’s home, and they’d watched it together. In those days, Tim drank in loving attention like parched earth.

“A young warrior is cursed while defending his village, and then exiled because the curse will consume him, rendering him a violent, mindless beast. The local wise woman counsels him to go west and see with eyes unclouded by hate—only there might he find a cure.”

Maybe—in a corner of Dick’s heart—he hoped that when Tim returned, a shared interest would give Tim and Dami a point of connection. He’d hoped that a shred of that starry-eyed kid would remain in Tim. Only one of those things proved true.

“It’s _heavy_ : it’s about life and death and nobody is wrong, but nobody is _right_ , either. I think that the movie struck a chord with Dami; Bruce and Talia had binary views on life, but this made a genuine argument for shades of grey. As the credits rolled, he said: ‘perhaps animation wasn’t a complete waste’.”

It was a precious memory, possibly the first time that they’d connected on something that didn’t involve violence or the Mission or duty. After that night, Dami started to open to Dick, like a hesitant sprout reaching for the sun.

Dick might not agree with Jason’s middle way, but he could acknowledge its merits, and understood that Dami must choose his own path. It was a moot point now, though. Damian...Damian was dead, like his parents, and that would always hurt deeply. Yet, his parents weren’t _gone_ : they lived through him, in Robin, and in every act that was a testament to their teachings.

Slade remained silent as Dick carefully crept up on a lightning bug. With a quick movement, he snatched a beetle from the air. Rising to his feet, he stood with bowed head as he gazed at his closed hands. Light pulsed between the cracks of his fingers.

“I understand, now, why you took Grant’s contract on us.”

Slade stiffened. Dick was aware that he was in dangerous waters, but felt confidence in his heart: sad and hard-won. He walked over to the stairs and stood before the man.

“Grant was dead, but assuming the contract was both a way of connecting with him and honoring his memory.”

Dick opened his hands, and the bioluminescent glow lit Slade’s face as he gazed into the mercenary's eye.

“The bonds we have are everlasting.”

He held Slade’s gaze until the beetle floated up and away, tracking it into the night sky.

“Even though Damian is dead, he’ll always be part of my life, he will live on _in_ me.”

Dick placed a palm over his heart.

“Dami _still_ gives to me. When every part of me rails against orders, his unwavering sense of duty and honor give me strength.”

A new, different pain, a dull throb tinged bittersweet instead of an overwhelming flood, ached in Dick’s chest. Damian would live on through him until the day that they saw each other again. He let his eyes fall shut.

“One day at a time, we carry forward.”

With those final words, a kind of peace settled in Dick’s bones. The air was quiet, save for the hum of nightly creatures, and he savored the moment of calm. Gently, he was tugged from the reverie by a hand on his hip. The mercenary stared up at him, awestruck.

“Scary Man?” he asked, easing to sit on the second step, between Slade’s legs.

Dick reached to cup his cheek, brow furrowing, and ran a thumb across Slade’s cheekbone. Slade opened his mouth, closed it. He licked his lips, inarguably at a complete loss. Just as Dick was starting to get truly concerned, Slade began to _sing_.

“ _It’s a gift to be simple, it’s a gift to be free, it’s a gift to come down where we ought to be,_ ”

Electricity shot through Dick’s spine at the dark, full baritone. Joey had to get it from somewhere, but Dick could never picture _Deathstroke_ singing. The mercenary overlaid Dick’s hand with his own, and let his eye fall shut.

“ _and when we find ourselves in the place just right, ‘twill be in the valley of love and delight_.”

Slade Wilson was not a man who did things by accident: every word, every act was calculated. Dick almost stopped breathing.

“ _When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend we shall not be ashamed_.”

There could be no other meaning—the raw emotion behind his tone left little question.

“ _To turn, turn will be our delight, ‘till by turning, turning we come ‘round right._ ”

There were few occasions in his life where Dick had been stunned stupid. Slade confessing his feelings, even indirectly, was nigh inconceivable. 

Dizzily, he swallowed, throat clicking, and cast around for a way to say what he felt. Then, he remembered _who_ sat before him, and spoke in a language that Slade could understand: slowly, Dick reached forward to tip his jaw so they could look at each other directly. Then, Dick let his eyes fall closed as he pressed a kiss onto Slade's whiskey-stained lips.

They'd shared many kinds of kisses: passionate, angry, eager, lustful—but none were like this, even the night that Slade taught him to waltz. It was whiskey and gun oil and rosin and worn flannel; it was devotion and desire.

Slade pulled him close, twining one hand in Dick's hair as he deepened their kiss. Dick was consumed, overwhelmed. His heart pounded in his chest. _Slade loved him_. Somebody loved him. _Slade loved him_. He was loved. _Slade loved him_. The words were stuck on-loop in Dick’s head. Euphoria had never tasted so much like hysteric panic. His hands scrabbled, body shaking like a leaf, and he gasped for air.

The hand in his hair slid down to grasp the back of his neck.

“You’re thinking too hard, Richard,” Slade murmured. “Don’t think— _feel._ ”

Pressing into that firm hold, Dick grounded himself through every point of contact with Slade’s body. The mercenary’s gentle touches slowly guided him back from the ledge. Once he was able to breathe again, he clearly felt love and he felt life and he felt _hope_. 

Dick looked up through his lashes. "Take me to bed."

Tomorrow they could talk about consequences, but tonight was for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary from “Technicolor Beat” by Oh Wonder
> 
> Boys...perhaps you should use your words....y'know....to be sure that you're on the same page?
> 
> Me, a reader: Screw fade-to-black. Give us the smut, you coward.  
> Me, the writer: Well, I never thought I’d be here, but structurally, fade-to-black fits best.  
> Slade’s song— Traditional Shaker hymn, “Simple Gifts”. If you’ve never heard it, do yourself a favor: [[YT](https://youtu.be/Bv5Yi4-Ravw)]  
> I’ve also updated the setlist to include the above, and "The Blackest Crow". 
> 
> “For you are my lamp…”— from 2 Samuel 22, “David’s Song of Deliverance”
> 
> Dick dueled Ra’s at dawn in the Thar Desert, with katanas, and won by kicking him in the mouth— _Nightwing_ (1996) #152  
> dfljsdlfk What does Slade sound like? Possibly Garth Brooks or Tim Foust, but not as polished, then throw in some whiskey and cigarettes in for good measure. Here's Tim Foust covering Garth Brooks’ “Friends In Low Places”. The first 40 seconds is absolute gold, but the rest drives me up a wall. [[Link](https://youtu.be/2ajrTkCAVNY)] (This song always makes me chuckle, imaging the speaker is either Slade or Jay talking to Dick.)
> 
> [I am very aware that “gutamurja” is not East Slovak Romani. Given that Dick’s great-grandmother lived most her life in Paris, his grandmother lived her whole life in Paris, and Mary lived the first two decades of her life in Paris, they probably had a lot of exchange with the Manouche Roma of the city—including picking up words/phrases.]


End file.
